TEN  NIGHTS  IN  A BAR  ROOM.  T S.  Arthur. 


Issued  -Semi- Weekly. 
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No.  48.  May  2Lst,  1806. 
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T.  S.  ARTHUR 


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3!  ROSE  STREET, 

NEW  YORK. 


TEN  NIGHTS  IN  A BAR-ROOM 

AND 

What  I Saw  There. 


T.  S.  ARTHUR. 


TTew  York  : 

OPTIMUS  PRINTING  CO., 
31  Rose  Street. 


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CONTENTS. 

c 


NIGHT  THE  FIRST. 

PAGE. 

The  u Sickle  and  Sheaf ” ..  ..  ..  ..  5 

NIGHT  THE  SECOND. 

The  Changes  of  a Year  ..  ..  „ ..  30 

NIGHT  THE  THIRD. 

Joe  Morgan’s  Child  ..  ..  ..  ..  ..  40 

NIGHT  THE  FOURTH. 

Death  of  Little  Mary  Morgan  ..  ..  ..  68 

NIGHT  THE  FIFTH. 

Som  e of  the  Consequences  of  Tavern- Keeping  ..  86 

NIGHT  THE  SIXTH. 

More  Consequences  ..  ..  ..  ..  ..  110 

NIGHT  THE  SEVENTH. 

Sowing  the  Wind  ..  ..  ..  ..  ..  125 

NIGHT  THE  EIGHTH. 

Reaping  the  Whirlwind  ..  ..  ..  ..  162 

NIGHT  THE  NINTH. 

A Fearful  Consummation  ..  ..  **  . 181 

NIGHT  THE  TENTH. 

The  Closing  Scene  at  the  u Sickle  and  Sheaf  ” ..  192 


/ 


TEH  NIGHTS  IN  A BAR-ROOM. 


NIGHT  THE  FIRST. 

THE  “ SICKLE  AND  SHEAF.” 

Ten  years  ago,  business  required  me  to  pass  a 
day  in  Cedarville.  It  was  late  in  the  afternoon 
when  the  stage  set  me  down  at  the  “ Sickle  and 
Sheaf/'  a new  tavern,  just  opened  by  a new  land- 
lord, in  a new  house,  builtAvith  the  special  end  of 
providing  “ accommodations  for  man  and  beast." 
As  I stepped  from  the  dusty  old  vehicle  in  which 
1 had  been  jolted  along  a rough  road  for  some 
thirty  miles,  feeling  tired  and  hungry,  the  good- 
natured  face  of  Simon  Slade,  the  landlord,  beam- 
ing as  it  did  with  a hearty  welcome,  was  really  a 
pleasant  sight  to  see,  and  the  grasp  of  his  hand 
was  like  that  of  a true  friend. 

I felt,  as  I entered  the  new  and  neatly  furnished 
sitting-room  adjoining  the  bar,  that  I had  indeed 
found  a comfortable  resting-place  after  my  weari- 
some journey. 

“ All  as  nice  as  a new  pin,"  said  I,  approvingly, 
as  I glanced  around  the  room,  up  to  the  ceiling — 
white  as  the  driven  snow — and  over  the  hand- 
somely carpeted  floor.  “ Haven't  seen  anything  so 
inviting  as  this.  How  long  have  you  been  open?  " 

“ Only  a few  months,"  answered  the  gratified 
landlord.  “ But  we  are  not  yet  in  good  going 
order.  It  takes  time,  you  know,  to  bring  every- 
thing into  the  right  shape,  Have  you  dined  yet?  " 


6 


TEN  NIGHTS  IN  A BAR-ROOM. 


“ No.  Everything  looked  so  dirty  at  the  stage- 
house,  where  we  stopped  to  get  dinner,  that  I 
couldn't  venture  upon  the  experiment  of  eating. 
How  long  before  your  supper  will  be  ready?  ” 

“ In  an  hour,"  replied  the  landlord. 

“ Tliat  will  do.  Let  me  have  a nice  piece  of  ten- 
der steak,  and  the  loss  of  dinner  will  soon  be  for- 
gotten.” 

“ You  shall  have  that,  cooked  fit  for  an  alder- 
man,” said  the  landlord.  “ I call  my  wife  the  best 
* cook  in  Cedarville.” 

As  he  spoke,  a neatly  dressed  girl,  about  six- 
teen years  of  age,  with  rather  an  attractive  coun- 
tenance, passed  through  the  room. 

“ My  daughter,”  said  the  landlord,  as  she  van- 
ished through  the  door.  There  was  a sparkle  of 
pride  in  the  father's  eyes,  and  a certain  tenderness 
in  the  tones  of  his  voice,  as  he  said  “ My  daugh- 
ter ” that  told  me  she  was  very  dear  to  him. 

“ You  are  a happy  man  to  have  so  fair  a child,” 
said  I,  speaking  more  in  compliment  than  with  a 
careful  choice  of  words. 

“ I am  a happy  man,”  was  the  landlord's  smiling 
answer;  his  fair,  round  face,  unwrinkled  by  a line 
of  care  or  trouble,  beaming  with  self-satisfaction. 
“ I have  always  been  a happy  man,  and  always 
expect  to  be.  Simon  Slade  takes  the  world  as  it 
comes,  and  takes  it  easy.  My  son,  sir,”  he  added, 
as  a boy,  in  his  twelfth  year,  came  in.  “ Speak  to 
the  gentleman.” 

The  boy  lifted  to  mine  a pair  of  deep  blue  eyes, 
from  which  innocence  beamed,  as  he  offered  me 
his  hand,  and  said,  respectfully — “ How  do  you 
do,  sir?  ” I could  not  but  remark  the  girl-like 
beauty  of  his  face,  in  which  the  hardier  firmness 
of  the  boy's  character  was  already  visible. 

“ What  is  your  name?  ” I asked. 

“ Frank,  sir.” 


NIGHT  THE  FIRST. 


7 

a Frank  is  his  name,”  said  the  landlord — “ we 
called  him  after  his  uncle.  Frank  and  Flora — the 
names  sound  pleasant  to  our  ears.  But,  you  know, 
parents  are  apt  to  be  a little  partial  and  over  fond.” 

“ Better  that  extreme  than  its  opposite/'  I re- 
marked. 

“ Just  what  I always  say.  Frank,  my  son,” — the 
landlord  spoke  to  the  boy — “ there's  some  one  in 
the  bar.  You  can  wait  on  him  as  well  as  I can.” 

The  lad  glided  from  the  room,  in  ready  obe- 
dience. 

“ A handy  boy,  that,  sir;  a very  handy  boy.  Al- 
most as  good  in  the  bar  as  a man.  He  mixes  a 
toddy  or  a punch  just  as  well  as  I can.” 

“ But,”  I suggested,  “ are  you  not  a little  afraid 
of  placing  one  so  young  in  the  way  of  temptation.” 

“Temptation!”  The  open  brows  of  Simon 
Slade  contracted  a little.  “ No,  sir!  ” he  replied, 
emphatically.  “ The  till  is  safer  under  his  care 
than  it  would  be  in  that  of  one  man  in  ten.  The 
boy  comes,  sir,  of  honest  parents.  Simon  Slade 
never  wronged  anybody  out  of  a farthing.” 

“ Oh,”  said  I,  quickly,  “ you  altogether  misap- 
prehend me.  I had  no  reference  to  the  till,  but 
to  the  bottle.” 

The  landlord's  brows  were  instantly  unbent,  and 
a broad  smile  circled  over  his  good-humored  face. 

“ Is  that  all?  Nothing  to  fear,  I can  assure  you. 
Frank  has  no  taste  for  liquor,  and  might  pour  it 
out  for  months  without  a drop  finding  its  way  to 
his  lips.  Nothing  to  apprehend  there,  sir — noth- 
ing.” 

I saw  that  further  suggestions  of  danger  would 
be  useless,  and  so  remained  silent.  The  arrival  of 
a traveler  called  away  the  landlord,  and  I was  left 
alone  for  observation  and  reflection.  The  bar  ad- 
joined the  neat  sitting-room,  and  I could  see, 
through  the  open  door,  the  customer  upon  whom 


8 TEN  NIGHTS  IN  A BAR-ROOM. 

the  lad  was  attending.  He  was  a well-dressed 
young  man — or  rather  boy,  for  he  did  not  appear 
to  be  over  nineteen  years  of  age — with  a fine,  in- 
telligent face,  that  was  already  slightly  marred  by 
sensual  indulgence.  He  raised  the  glass  to  his 
lips,  with  a quick,  almost  eager  motion,  and 
drained  it  at  a single  draught. 

“ Just  right,”  said  he,  tossing  a sixpence  to  the 
young  bar-tender.  “ You  are  first-rate  at  a brandy- 
toddy.  Never  drank  a better  in  my  life.” 

The  lad’s  smiling  face  told  that  he  was  gratified 
by  the  compliment.  To  me  the  sight  was  painful, 
for  I saw  that  this  youthful  tippler  was  on  dan- 
gerous ground. 

“ Who  is  that  young  man  in  the  bar?  ” I asked, 
a few  minutes  afterward,  on  being  rejoined  by  the 
landlord. 

Simon  Slade  stepped  to  the  door  and  looked 
into  the  bar  for  a moment. 

Two  or  three  men  were  there  by  this  time;  but 
he  was  at  no  loss  in  answering  my  question. 

“ Oh,  that's  a son  of  Judge  Hammond,  who 
lives  in  the  large  brick  house  just  as  you  enter 
the  village.  Willy  Hammond,  as  everybody  fa- 
miliarly calls  him,  is  about  the  finest  young  man 
in  our  neighborhood.  There  is  nothing  proud  or 
put-on  about  him — nothing — even  if  his  father  is  a 
judge,  and  rich  into  the  bargain.  Every  one,  gentle 
or  simple,  likes  Willy  Hammond.  And  then  he  is 
such  good  company.  Always  so  cheerful,  and 
always  with  a pleasant  story  on  his  tongue.  And 
he's  so  high-spirited  withal,  and  so  honorable. 
Willy  Hammond  would  lose  his  right  hand  rather 
than  be  guilty  of  a mean  action.” 

“ Landlord ! ” The  voice  came  loud  from  the 
road  in  front  of  the  house,  and  Simon  Slade  again 
left  me  to  answer  the  demands  of  some  new- 
comer. I went  into  the  bar-room,  in  order  to  take 


NIGHT  THE  FIRST. 


9 

a closer  observation  of  Willy  Hammond,  in  whom 
an  interest,  not  unmingled  with  concern,  had  al- 
ready been  awakened  in  my  mind.  I found  him 
engaged  in  a pleasant  conversation  with  a plain- 
looking farmer,  whose  homely,  terse,  common 
sense  was  quite  as  conspicuous  as  his  fine  play  of 
words  and  lively  fancy.  The  farmer  was  a sub- 
stantial conservative,  and  young  Hammond  a 
warm  admirer  of  new  ideas  and  the  quicker  adap- 
tation of  means  to  ends.  I soon  saw  that  his 
mental  powers  were  developed  beyond  his  years, 
while  his  personal  qualities  were  strongly  attract- 
ive. I understood  better,  after  being  a silent  list- 
ener and  observer  for  ten  minutes,  why  the  land- 
lord had  spoken  of  him  so  warmly. 

“ Take  a brandy-toddy,  Mr.  H ? ” said 

Hammond,  after  the  discussion  closed,  good  hu- 
moredly.  “ Frank,  our  junior  bar-keeper  here, 
beats  his  father,  in  that  line.” 

“ I don’t  care  if  I do,”  returned  the  farmer;  and 
the  two  passed  up  to  the  bar. 

“ Now,  Frank,  my  boy,  don’t  belie  my  praises,” 
said  the  young  man;  “ do  your  handsomest.” 

“ Two  brandy  toddies,  did  you  say?  ” Frank 
made  the  inquiry  with  quite  a professional  air. 

“Just  what  I did  say;  and  let  them  be  equal  to 
Jove’s  nectar.” 

Pleased  at  this  familiarity,  the  boy  went  briskly 
to  his  work  of  mixing  the  tempting  compound, 
while  Hammond  looked  on  with  an  approving 
smile. 

“ There,”  said  the  latter,  as  Frank  passed  the 
glasses  across  the  counter,  “ if  you  don’t  call  that 
first-rate,  you’re  no  judge.’-’  And  he  handed  one 
of  them  to  the  farmer,  who  tasted  the  agreeable 
draught,  and  praised  its  flavor.  As  before,  I no- 
ticed that  Hammond  drank  eagerly,  like  one 


10  TEN  NIGHTS  IN  A BAR-ROOM . 

athirst — emptying  his  glass  without  once  taking 
it  from  his  lips. 

Soon  after  the  bar-room  was  empty;  and  then 
I walked  around  the  premises  in  company  with 
the  landlord,  and  listened  to  his  praise  of  every- 
thing and  his  plans  and  purposes  for  the  future. 
The  house,  yard,  garden,  and  out-buildings  were 
in  the  most  perfect  order;  presenting,  in  the 
whole,  a model  of  a village  tavern. 

“ Whatever  I do,  sir,”  said  the  talkative  Simon 
Slade,  “ I like  to  do  well.  I wasn’t  just  raised  to 
tavern-keeping,  you  must  know;  but  I’m  one  who 
can  turn  his  hand  to  almost  any  thing.” 

“ What  was  your  business?  ” I inquired. 

“ I’m  a miller,  sir,  by  trade,”  he  answered — 
“ and  a better  miller,  though  I say  it  myself,  is  not 
to  be  found  in  Bolton  county.  I’ve  followed  mill- 
ing these  twenty  years,  and  made  some  little 
money.  But  I got  tired  of  hard  work,  and  deter- 
mined to  lead  an  easier  life.  So  I sold  my  mill, 
and  built  this  house  with  the  money.  I always 
thought  I’d  like  tavern-keeping.  It’s  an  easy  life; 
and,  if  rightly  seen  after,  one  in  which  a man  is 
sure  to  make  money.” 

“ You  were  still  doing  a fair  business  with  your 
mill?”  • 

“ Oh,  yes.  Whatever  I do,  I do  right.  Last  year, 
1 put  by  a thousand  dollars  above  all  expenses, 
which  is  not  bad,  I can  assure  you,  for  a mere  grist 
mill.  If  the  present  owner  comes  out  even,  he’ll 
do  well ! ” 

"How  is  that?” 

“ Oh,  he’s  no  miller.  Give  him  the  best  wheat 
that  is  grown,  and  he’ll  ruin  it  in  grinding.  He 
takes  the  life  out  of  every  grain.  I don’t  believe 
he’ll  keep  half  the  custom  that  I transferred  with 
the  mill.” 


NIGHT  THE  FIRST . 11 

“ A thousand  dollars,  clear  profit,  in  so  useful  a 
business,  ought  to  have  satisfied  you,”  said  I. 

“ There  you  and  I differ,”  answered  the  land- 
lord. “ Every  man  desires  to  make  as  much 
money  as  possible,  and  with  the  least  labor.  I hope 
to  make  two  or  three  thousand  dollars  a year,  over 
and  above  all  expenses,  at  tavern-keeping.  My  bar 
alone  ought  to  yield  me  that  sum.  A man  with  a 
wife  and  children  very  naturally  tries  to  do  as  well 
by  them  as  possible.” 

“ Very  true;  but,”  I ventured  to  suggest,  “ will 
this  be  doing  as  well  by  them  as  if  you  had  kept 
on  at  the  mill?  ” 

“ Two  or  three  thousand  dollars  a year  against 
one  thousand!  Where  are  your  figures,  man?  ” 

“ There  may  be  something  beyond  the  money 
to  take  into  the  account,”  said  I. 

-‘What?”  inquired  Slade,  with  a kind  of  half 
credulity. 

“ Consider  the  different  influences  of  the  two 
callings  in  life — that  of  a miller  and  a tavern- 
keeper.” 

“Well!  say  on.”  x 

“ Will  your  children  be  as  safe  from  temptation 
here  as  in  their  former  home?  ” 

“ Just  as  safe,”  was  the  unhesitating  answer. 
“ Why  not?” 

I was  about  to  speak  of  the  alluring  glass  in 
the  case  of  Frank,  but  remembering  that  I had 
already  expressed  a fear  in  that  direction,  felt  that 
to  do  so  again  would  be  useless,  and  so  kept  silent. 
* “A  tavern-keeper,”  said  Slade,  “is  just  as  re- 
spectable as  a miller — in  fact,  the  very  people  who 
used  to  call  me  ‘ Simon  ’ or  ‘ Neighbor  Dusty- 
coat,’  now  say  ‘ Landlord/  or  Mr.  Slade,  and  treat 
me  in  every  way  more  as  if  I were  an  equal  than 
ever  they  did  before.” 

“ The  change,”  said  I,  “ may  be  due  to  the  fact 


12  TEN  NIGHTS  IN  A BAR-ROOM. 

of  your  giving  evidence  of  possessing  some  means< 
Men  are  very  apt  to  be  courteous  to  those  who 
have  property.  The  building  of  the  tavern  has, 
without  doubt,  contributed  to  the  new  estimation 
in  which  you  are  held.” 

“ That  isn’t  all/’  replied  the  landlord.  “ It  is 
because  I am  keeping  a good  tavern,  and  thus 
materially  advancing  the  interests  of  Cedarville, 
that  some  of  our  best  people  look  at  me  with  dif- 
ferent eyes.” 

“ Advancing  the  interests  of  Cedarville!  In  what 
way?  ” I did  not  apprehend  his  meaning. 

**  A good  tavern  always  draws  people  to  a place, 
while  a miserable  old  tumble-down  of  an  affair, 
badly  kept,  such  as  we  have  had  for  years,  as 
surely  repels  them.  You  can  generally  tell  some- 
thing about  the  condition  of  a town  by  looking 
at  its  taverns.  If  they  are  well  kept,  and  doing  a 
good  business,  you  will  hardly  be  wrong  in  the 
conclusion  that  the  place  is  thriving.  Why,  already 
since  I built  and  opened  the  ‘ Sickle  and  Sheaf,’ 
property  has  advanced  over  twenty  per  cent, 
along  the  whole  street,  and  not  less  than  five  new 
houses  have  been  commenced.” 

“ Other  causes,  besides  the  simple  opening  of 
a new  tavern,  may  have  contributed  to  this  re- 
sult,” said  I. 

“ None  of  which  I am  aware.  I was  talking 
with  Judge  Hammond  only  yesterday — he  owns  a 
great  deal  of  ground  on  the  street — and  he  did 
not  hesitate  to  say,  that  the  building  and  opening 
of  a good  tavern  here  had  increased  the  value  of 
his  property  at  least  five  thousand  dollars.  He 
said,  moreover,  that  he  thought  the  people  of 
Cedarville  ought  to  present  me  with  a silver  pitch- 
er; and  that,  for  one,  he  would  contribute  ten  dol- 
lars for  the  purpose.” 

The  ringing  of  the  supper  bell  interrupted  fur- 


NIGHT  THE  FIRST.  13 

ther  conversation;  and  with  the  best  of  appetites, 
I took  my  way  to  the  room,  where  a plentiful  meal 
was  spread.  As  I entered,  I met  the  wife  of  Simon 
Slade,  just  passing  out,  after  seeing  that  every 
thing  was  in  order.  I had  not  observed  her  before ; 
and  now  could  not  help  remarking  that  she  had  a 
flushed,  excited  countenance,  as  if  she  had  been 
over  a hot  fire,  and  was  both  worried  and  fatigued. 
And  there  was,  moreover,  a peculiar  expression  of 
the  mouth,  never  observed  in  one  whose-  mind  is 
entirely  at  ease — an  expresion  that  once  seen  is 
never  forgotten.  The  face  stamped  itself,  instantly, 
on  my  memory;  and  I can  even  now  recall  it  with 
almost  the  original  distinctness.  How  strongly  it 
contrasted  with  that  of  her  smiling,  self-satisfied 
husband,  who  took  his  place  at  the  head  of  his 
table  with  an  air  of  conscious  importance.  I was 
too  hungry  to  talk  much,  and  so  found  greater  en- 
joyment in  eating  than  in  conversation.  The  land- 
lord had  a more  chatty  guest  by  his  side,  and  I 
left  them  to  entertain  each  other,  while  I did  am- 
ple justice  to  the  excellent  food  with  which  the 
table  was  liberally  provided. 

After  supper  I went  to  the  sitting-room,  and 
remained  there  until  the  lamps  were  lighted.  A 
newspaper  occupied  my  time  for  perhaps  half  an 
hour;  then  the  buzz  of  voices  from  the  adjoining 
bar-room,  which  had  been  increasing  for  some 
time,  attracted  my  attention,  and  I went  in  there 
to  see  and  hear  what  was  passing.  The  first  per- 
son upon  whom  my  eyes  rested  was  young  Ham- 
mond, who  sat  talking  with  a man  older  than  him- 
self by  several  years.  At  a glance,  I saw  that  this 
man  could  only  associate  himself  with  Willy  Ham- 
mond as  a tempter.  Unscrupulous  selfishness  was 
written  all  over  his  sinister  countenance;  and  I 
wondered  that  it  did  not  strike  every  one,  as  it 
did  me,  with  instant  repulsion.  There  could  not 


14  TEN  NIGHTS  IN  A BAR-ROOM . 

be,  I felt  certain,  any  common  ground  of  associa- 
tion, for  two  such  persons,  but  the  dead  level  of 
a village  bar-room.  I afterward  learned,  during 
the  evening,  that  this  man's  name  was  Harvey 
Green,  and  that  he  was  an  occasional  visitor  at 
Cedarville,  remaining  a few  days,  or  a few  weeks 
at  a time,  as  appeared  to  suit  his  fancy,  and  having 
no  ostensible  business  or  special  acquaintance 
with  anybody  in  the  village. 

“ There  is  one  thing  about  him,”  remarked 
Simon  Slade,  in  answering  some  question  that  I 
put  in  reference  to  the  man,  “ that  I don't  object 
to*,  he  has  plenty  of  money,  and  is  not  at  all  nig- 
gardly in  spending  it.  He  used  to  come  here,  so 
he  told  me,  about  once  in  five  or  six  months;  but 
his  stay  at  the  miserably  kept  tavern,  the  only  one 
then  in  Cedarville,  was  so  uncomfortable,  that  he 
had  pretty  well  made  up  his  mind  never  to  visit 
u«  again.  Now,  however,  he  has  engaged  one  of 
my  best  rooms,  for  which  he  pays  me  by  the  year, 
and  I am  to  charge  him  full  board  for  the  time  he 
occupies  it.  He  says  that  there  is  something  about 
Cedarville  that  always  attracts  him;  and  that  his 
health  is  better  while  here  than  it  is  anywhere, 
except  South  during  the  winter  season.  He'll  not 
leave  less  than  two  or  three  hundred  dollars  a 
year  in  our  village — there  is  one  item,  for  you,  of 
advantage  to  a place  in  having  a good  tavern." 

“ What  is  his  business?"  I asked.  “ Is  he  en- 
gaged in  any  trading  operations?  " 

The  landlord  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and 
looked  slightly  mysterious,  as  he  answered : 

“ I never  inquire  about  the  business  of  a guest. 
My  calling  is  to  entertain  strangers.  If  they  are 
pleased  with  my  house,  and  pay  my  bills  on  pres- 
entation, I have  no  right  to  seek  further.  As  a 
miller,  I never  asked  a customer  whether  he 
raised,  bought,  or  stole  his  wheat.  It  was  my  busi- 


NIGHT  THE  FIRST. 


15 

ness  to  grind  it,  and  I took  care  to  do  it  well.  Be- 
yond that,  it  was  all  his  own  affair.  And  so  it  will 
be  in  my  new  calling.  I shall  mind  my  own  busi- 
ness and  keep  my  own  place. ” 

Besides  young  Hammond  and  this  Harvey 
Green,  there  were  in  the  bar-room,  when  I en- 
tered, four  others  besides  the  landlord.  Among 
these  was  a Judge  Lyman — so  he  was  addressed — 
a man  between  forty  and  fifty  years  of  age,  who 
had  a few  weeks  before  received  the  Democratic 
nomination  for  member  of  Congress.  He  was 
very  talkative  and  very  affable,  and  soon  formed 
a kind  of  centre  of  attraction  to  the  bar-room  cir- 
cle. Among  other  topics  of  conversation  that 
came  up  was  the  new  tavern,  introduced  by  the 
landlord,  in  whose  mind  it  was>  very  naturally, 
the  uppermost  thought. 

“ The  only  wonder  to  me  is,”  said  Judge  Ly- 
man, “that  nobody  had  wit  enough  to  see  the 
advantage  of  a good  tavern  in  Cedarville  ten  years 
ago,  or  enterprise  enough  to  start  one,  I give 
our  friend  Slade  the  credit  of  being  a shrewd,  far- 
seeing  man ; and,  mark  my  word  for  it,  in  ten  years 
from  to-day  he  will  be  the  richest  man  in  the 
county.”  H ! f 

“Nonsense — Ho!  ho!”  Simon  Slade  laughed 
outright.  “The;  richest  man!  You  forget  Judge 
Hammond.” 

“ No,  not  even  Judge  Hammond,  with  all  def- 
erence for  our  clever  friend  Willy,”  and  Judge 
Lyman  smiled  pleasantly  on  the  young  man. 

“ If  he  gets  richer,  somebody  will  be  poorer!  ” 
The  individual  who  uttered  these  words  had  not 
spoken  before,  and  I turned  to  look  at  him  more 
closely.  A glance  showed  him  to  be  one  of  a class 
seen  in  all  bar-rooms;  a poor,  broken-down  ine- 
briate, with  the  inward  power  of  resistance  gone — 
conscious  of  having  no  man's  respect,  and  giving 


TEN  NIGHTS  IN  A BAR-ROOM . 


16 

respect  to  none.  There  was  a shrewd  twinkle  in 
his  eyes,  as  he  fixed  them  on  Slade,  that  gave 
added  force  to  the  peculiar  tone  in  which  his  brief 
but  telling  sentence  was  uttered.  I noticed  a slight 
contraction  on  the  landlord’s  ample  forehead,  the 
first  evidence  I had  yet  seen  of  ruffled  feelings. 
The  remark,  thrown  in  so  untimely  (or  timely, 
some  will  say),  and  with  a kind  of  phophetic  mal- 
ice, produced  a temporary  pause  in  the  conversa- 
tion. No  one  answered  or  questioned  the  intruder, 
who,  I could  perceive,  silently  enjoyed  the  effect 
of  his  words.  But  soon  the  obstructed  current  ran 
on  again. 

“ If  our  excellent  friend,  Mr.  Slade,”  said  Har- 
vey Green,  “ is  not  the  richest  man  in  Cedarville 
at  the  end  of  ten  years,  he  will  at  least  enjoy  the 
satisfaction  of  having  made  his  town  richer.”- 

“ A true  word  that,”  replied  Judge  Lyman — 
“ as  true  a word  as  ever  was  spoken.  What  a 
dead-and-alive  place  this  has  been  until  within  the 
last  few  months.  All  vigorous  growth  had  stopped, 
and  we  were  actually  going  to  seed.” 

“ And  the  graveyard,  too,”  muttered  the  indi- 
vidual who  had  before  disturbed  the  self-satisfied 
harmony  of  the  company,  remarking  upon  the 
closing  sentence  of  Harvey  Green.  “ Come,  land- 
lord,” he  added,  as  he  strode  across  to  the  bar, 
speaking  in  a changed,  reckless  sort  of  a way,  “ fix 
me  up  a good  hot  whisky-punch,  and  do  it  right; 
and  there’s  another  sixpence  toward  the  fortune 
you  are  bound  to  make.  It’s  the  last  one  left — not 
a copper  more  in  my  pockets,”  and  he  turned  them 
inside-out,  with  a half-solemn,  half-ludicrous  air. 
“ I send  it  to  keep  company  in  your  till  with  four 
others  that  have  found  their  way  into  that  snug 
place  since  morning,  and  which  will  be  lonesome 
without  their  little  friend.” 

I looked  at  Simon  Slade;  his  eyes  rested  on 


NIOHT  THE  FIRST.  17 

mine  for  a moment  or  two,  and  then  sunk  beneath 
my  earnest  gaze.  I saw  that  his  countenance 
flushed,  and  that  his  motions  were  slightly  con- 
fused. The  incident,  it  was  plain,  did  not  awaken 
agreeable  thoughts.  Once  I saw  his  hand  move 
toward  the  sixpence  that  lay  upon  the  counter; 
but  whether  to  push  it  back  or  draw  it  toward 
the  till,  I could  not  determine.  The  whisky-punch 
was  in  due  time  ready,  and  with  it  the  man  re- 
tired to  a table  across  the  room,  and  sat  down  to 
enjoy  the  tempting  beverage.  As  he  did  so,  the 
landlord  quietly  swept  the  poor  unfortunate’s  last 
sixpence  into  his  drawer.  The  influence  of  this 
strong  potation  was  to*  render  the  man  a little 
more  talkative.  To  the  free  conversation  passing 
around  him  he  lent  an  attentive  ear,  dropping  in  a 
word,  now  and  then,  that  always  told  upon  the 
company  like  a well-directed  blow.  At  last,  Slade 
lost  all  patience  with  him,  and  said,  a little  fret- 
fully: 

“ Look  here,  Joe  Morgan,  if  you  will  be  ill- 
natured,  pray  go  somewhere  else,  and  not  inter- 
rupt good  feeling  among  gentlemen.” 

“ Got  my  last  sixpence,”  retorted  Joe,  turning 
his  pockets  inside-out  again.  “ No  more  use  for 
me  here  to-night.  That’s  the  way  of  the  world. 
How  apt  a scholar  is  our  good  friend  Dustycoat, 
in  this  new  school!  Well,  he  was  a good  miller — 
no  one  ever  disputed  that — and  it’s  plain  to  see 
that  he  is  going  to  make  a good  landlord.  I 
thought  his  heart  was  a little  too  soft;  but  the  in- 
durating process  has  begun,  and,  in  less  than  ten 
years,  if  it  isn’t  as  hard  as  one  of  his  old  millstones, 
Joe  Morgan  is  no  prophet.  Oh,  you  needn’t  knit 
your  brows  so,  friend  Simon,  we’re  old  friends; 
and  friends  are  privileged  to  speak  plain.” 

“ I wish  you’d  go  home.  You’re  not  yourself, 
to-night,”  said  the  landlord,  a little  coaxingly,  for 


18  TEN  NIGHTS  IN  A BAR-ROOM . 

he  saw  that  nothing  was  to  be  gained  by  quarrel- 
ing with  Morgan.  “ Maybe  my  heart  is  growing 
harder,”  he  added,  with  affected  good-humor; 
“ and  it  is  time,  perhaps.  One  of  my  weaknesses, 
I have  heard  even  you  say,  was  being  too  woman- 
hearted.” 

“ No  danger  of  that  now,”  retorted  Joe  Morgan. 
“ I’ve  known  a good  many  landlords  in  my  time, 
but  can't  remember  one  that  was  troubled  with 
the  disease  that  once  afflicted  you.” 

Just  at  this  moment  the  outer  door  was  pushed 
open  with  a slow,  hesitating  motion;  then  a little 
pale  face  peered  in,  and  a pair  of  soft  blue  eyes 
went  searching  about  the  room.  Conversation  was 
Instantly  hushed,  and  every  face,  excited  with  in- 
terest, turned  toward  the  child,  who  had  now 
stepped  through  the  door.  She  was  not  over  ten 
years  of  age;  but  it  moved  the  heart  to  look  upon 
the  saddened  expression  of  her  young  counte- 
nance, and  the  forced  bravery  therein,  that  scarce- 
ly overcame  the  native  timidity  so  touchingly  vis- 
ible. 

“ Father!  ” I have  never  heard  this  word 
spoken  in  a voice  that  sent  such  a thrill  along 
every  nerve.  It  was  full  of  sorrowful  love — full  of 
a tender  concern  that  had  its  origin  too  deep  for 
the  heart  of  a child.  As  she  spoke,  the  little  one 
sprang  across  the  room,  and  laying  her  hands 
upon  the  arm  of  Joe  Morgan,  lifted  her  eyes,  that 
were  ready  to  gush  over  with  tears,  to  his  face. 

“ Come,  father!  won't  you  come  home?”  I 
hear  that  low,  pleading  voice  even  now,  and  my 
heart  gives  a quicker  throb.  Poor  child!  Darkly 
shadowed  was  the  sky  that  bent  gloomily  over 
thy  young  life. 

Morgan  arose,  and  suffered  the  child  to  lead 
him  from  the  room.  He  seemed  passive  in  her 
hands.  I noticed  that  he  thrust  his  fingers  nerv- 


NIGHT  THE  FIRST. 


1.9 

ously  into  his  pocket,  and  that  a troubled  look 
went  over  his  face  as  they  were  withdrawn.  His 
last  sixpence  was  in  the  till  of  Simon  Slade! 

The  first  man  who  spoke  was  Harvey  Green, 
and  this  not  for  a minute  after  the  father  and  his 
child  had  vanished  through  the  door. 

“ If  I was  in  your  place,  landlord  " — his  voice 
was  cold  and  unfeeling — “ I'd  pitch  that  fellow 
out  of  the  bar-room  the  next  time  he  stepped 
through  the  door.  He's  no  business  here,  in  the 
first  place;  and,  in  the  second,  he  doesn't  know 
how  to  behave  himself.  There's  no  telling  how 
much  a vagabond  like  him  injures  a respectable 
house." 

“ I wish  he  would  stay  away,"  said  Simon,  with 
a perplexed  air. 

“ I'd  make  him  stay  away,"  answered  Green. 

“ That  may  be  easier  said  than  done,"  remarked 
Judge  Lyman.  “ Our  friend  keeps  a public-house, 
and  can't  just  say  who  shall  or  shall  not  come 
into  it." 

“ But  such  a fellow  has  no  business  here.  He's 
a good-for-nothing  sot.  If  I kept  a tavern,  I'd 
refuse  to  sell  him  liquor." 

“ That  you  might  do,"  said  Judge  Lyman;  “ and 
I presume  your  hint  will  not  be  lost  on  our  friend 
Slade." 

“ He  will  have  liquor,  so  long  as  he  can  get  a 
eent  to  buy  it  with,"  remarked  one  of  the  com- 
pany; “ and  I don't  see  why  our  landlord  here, 
who  has  gone  to  so  much  expense  to  fit  up  a tav- 
ern, shouldn't  have  the  sale  of  it  as  well  as  any- 
body else.  Joe  talks  a little  freely  sometimes;  but 
no  one  can  say  he  is  quarrelsome.  You've  got 
to  take  him  as  he  is,  that’s  all." 

“ I am  one,"  retorted  Harvey  Green,  with  a 
slightly  ruffled  manner,  “ who  is  never  disposed 
to  take  people  as  they  are  when  they  choose  to 


20  TEN  nights  in  a bar-room. 

render  themselves  disagreeable.  If  I wns  Mr. 
Slade,  as  I remarked  in  the  beginning,  I’d  pitch 
that  fellow  into  the  road  the  next  time  he  put  his 
foot  over  my  door-step/’ 

“ Not  if  I were  present/'  remarked  the  other, 
coolly. 

Green  was  on  his  feet  in  a moment;  and  I saw, 
from  the  flash  of  his  eyes,  that  he  was  a man  of 
evil  passions.  Moving  a pace  or  two  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  other,  he  said,  sharply: 

“ What  is  that,  sir?  ” 

The  individual  against  whom  his  anger  was 
so  suddenly  aroused  was  dressed  plainly,  and  had 
the  appearance  of  a working-man.  He  was  stout 
and  muscular. 

“ I presume  you  heard  my  words.  They  were 
spoken  distinctly,”  he  replied,  not  moving  from 
where  he  sat,  nor  seeming  to  be  in  the  least  dis- 
turbed. But  there  was  cool  defiance  in  the  tones 
of  his  voice  and  in  the  steady  look  of  his  eyes. 

“ You’re  an  impertinent  fellow,  and  I’m  half 
tempted  to  chastise  you.” 

Green  had  scarcely  finished  the  sentence,  ere 
he  was  lying  at  full  length  upon  the  floor!  The 
other  had  sprung  upon  him  like  a tiger,  and  with 
one  blow  from  his  heavy  fist,  struck  him  down  as 
if  he  had  been  a child.  For  a moment  or  two, 
Green  lay  stunned  and  bewildered — then,  starting 
up  with  a savage  cry,  that  sounded  more  bestial 
than  human,  he  drew  a long  knife  from  a con- 
cealed sheath,  and  attempted  to  stab  his  assailant; 
but  the  murderous  purpose  was  not  accomplished, 
for  the  other  man,  who  had  superior  strength  and 
coolness,  saw  the  design,  and  with  a well-directed 
blow  almost  broke  the  arm  of  Green,  causing  the 
knife  to  leave  his  hand  and  glide  far  across  the 
room. 

“ I’m  half  tempted  to  wring  your  neck  off,”  ex- 


NIGHT  THE  FI  RUT. 


21 

claimed  the  man,  whose  name  was  Lyon,  now 
much  excited;  and  seizing  Green  by  the  throat, 
he  strangled  him  until  his  face  grew  black.  “ Draw 
a knife  on  me,  ha!  You  murdering  villain!  " And 
he  gripped  him  tighter. 

Judge  Lyman  and  the  landlord  now  interfered, 
and  rescued  Green  from  the  hands  of  his  fully 
aroused  antagonist.  For  some  time  they  stood 
growling  at  each  other,  like  two  parted  dogs  strug- 
gling to  get  free,  in  order  to  renew  the  conflict, 
but  gradually  cooled  off.  In  a little  while  Judge 
Lyman  drew  Green  aside,  and  the  two  men  left 
the  bar-room  together.  In  the  door,  as  they  were 
retiring,  the  former  slightly  nodded  to  Willy 
Hammond,  who  soon  followed  them,  going  into 
the  sitting-room;  and  from  thence,  as  I could  per- 
ceive, up-stairs,  to  an  apartment  above. 

“ Not  after  much  good/*  I heard  Lyon  mutter 
to  himself.  “ If  Judge  Hammond  don't  look  a 
little  closer  after  that  boy  of  his,  he'll  be  sorry  for 
it,  that's  all." 

“ Who  is  this  Green?  " I asked  of  Lyon,  finding 
myself  alone  with  him  in  the  bar-room,  soon  after. 

“ A blackleg,  I take  it,"  was  his  unhesitating 
answer. 

“ Does  Judge  Lyman  suspect  his  real  charac- 
ter?" 

“ I don't  know  any  thing  about  that;  but  I 
wouldn't  be  afraid  do  bet  ten  dollars  that,  if  you 
could  look  in  upon  them  now,  you  would  find 
cards  in  their  hands." 

“ What  a school,  and  what  teachers  for  the 
youth  who  just  went  with  them!  " I could  not  help 
remarking. 

“ Willy  Hammond?  " 

“ Yes." 

“ You  may  well  say  that.  What  can  his  father 


22  TEN  NIGHTS  IN  A BAR-ROOM. 

be  thinking  about  to  leave  him  exposed  to  such 
influences! 

“ He's  one  of  the  few  who  are  in  raptures  about 
this  tavern,  because  its  erection  has.  slightly  in- 
creased the  value  of  his  property  about  here;  but 
if  he  is  not  the  loser  of  fifty  per  cent,  for  every 
one  gained,  before  ten  years  go  by,  I’m  very  much 
in  error." 

“ How  so?" 

“ It  will  prove,  I fear,  the  open  door  to  ruin  for 
his  son." 

“ That's  bad,"  said  I. 

“ Bad!  It  is  awful  to  think  of.  There  is  not  a 
finer  young  man  in  the  country,  nor <§ne  with  bet- 
ter mind  and  heart,  than  Willy  Hammond.  So 
much  the  sadder  will  be  his  destruction.  Ah,  sir! 
this  tavern-keeping  is  a curse  to  any%>lace." 

“ But  I thought,  just  now,  that  you  spoke  in 
favor  of  letting  even  the  poor  drunkard's  money 
go  into  our  landlord's  till,  in  order  to  encourage 
his  commendable  enterprise  in  opening  so  good  a 
tavern." 

“ We  all  speak  with  covert  irony  sometimes," 
answered  the  man,  “as  I did  then.  Poor  Joe 
Morgan!  He  is  an  old  and  early  friend  of  Simon 
Slade.  They  were  boys  together,  and  worked  as 
millers  under  the  same  roof  for  many  years.  In 
fact,  Joe's  father  owned  the  mill,  and  the  two 
learned  their  trade  with  him.  When  old  Morgan 
died,  the  mill  came  into  Joe's  hands.  It  was  in 
rather  a worn-out  condition,  and  Joe  went  in  debt 
for  some  pretty  thorough  repairs  and  additions  of 
machinery.  By  and  by,  Simon  Slade,  who  was 
hired  by  Joe  to  run  the  mill,  received  a couple  of 
thousand  dollars  at  the  death  of  an  aunt.  This 
sum  enabled  him  to  buy  a share  in  the  mill,  which 
Morgan  was  very  glad  to  sell  in  order  to  get  clear 
of  his  debt.  Time  passed  on,  and  Joe  left  his  mill- 


NIGHT  THE  FIRST . 


23 

mg'  interest  almost  entirely  in  the  care  of  Slade, 
who,  it  must  be  said  in  his  favor,  did  not  neglect 
the  business.  But  it  somehow  happened — I will 
not  say  unfairly— that  at  the  end  of  ten  years,  Joe 
Morgan  no  longer  owned  a share  in  the  mill.  The 
whole  property  was  in  the  hands  of  Slade.  People 
did  not  much  wonder  at  this ; for  while  Slade  was 
always  to  be  found  at  the  mill,  industrious,  active, 
and  attentive  to  customers,  Morgan  was  rarely 
seen  on  the  premises.  You  would  oftener  find 
him  in  the  woods,  with  a gun  over  his  shoulder,  or 
sitting  by  a trout  brook,  or  lounging  at  the  tavern. 
And  yet  everybody  liked  Joe,  for  he  was  com- 
panionable, quick-witted,  and  very  kind-hearted. 
He  would  say  sharp  things  sometimes,  when  peo- 
ple manifested  little  meannesses;  bii|.  there  was  so 
much  honey  in  his  gall,  that  bitterness'  rarely  pre- 
dominated. 

“ A year  or  two  before  his  ownership  in  the  mill 
ceased,  Morgan  married  one  of  the  sweetest  girls 
in  our  town — Fanny  Ellis,  that  was  her  name,  and 
she  could  have  had  her  pick  of  the  young  men. 
Everybody  affected  to  wonder  at  her  choice;  and 
yet  nobody  really  did  wonder,  for  Joe  was  an  at- 
tractive young  man,  take  him  as  you  would,  and 
jtist  the  one  to  win  the  heart  of  a girl  like  Fanny. 
What  if  he  had  been  seen,  now  and  then,  a little 
the  worse  for  drink!  What  if  he  showed  more 
fondness  for  pleasure  than  for  business!  Fanny 
did  not  look  into  the  future  with  doubt  or  fear. 
She  believed  that  her  love  was  strong  enough  to 
win  him  from  all  evil  allurements ; and,  as  for  this 
world's  goods,  they  were  matters  in  which  her 
maiden  fancies  rarely  busied  themselves. 

“ Well,  dark  days  came  for  her,  poor  soul!  And 
yet,  in  all  the  darkness  of  her  earthly  lot,  she  has 
never,  it  is  said,  been  any  thing  but  a loving,  for- 
bearing, self-denying  wife  to  Morgan.  And  he — 


24  TEN  NIGHTS  IN  A BAR-ROOM . 

fallen  as  he  is,  and  powerless  in  the  grasp  of  the 
monster  intemperance — has  never,  I am  sure,  hurt 
her  with  a cruel  word.  Had  he  added  these,  her 
heart  would,  long  ere  this,  have  broken.  Poor 
Joe  Morgan!  Poor  Fanny!  Oh,  what  a curse  is 
this  drink!  ” 

The  man,  warming  with  his  theme,  had  spoken 
with  an  eloquence  I had  not  expected  from  his 
lips.  Slightly  overmastered  by  his  feelings,  he 
paused  for  a moment  or  two,  and  then  added: 

“ It  was  unfortunate  for  Joe,  at  least,  that  Slade 
sold  his  mill,  and  became  a tavern-keeper;  for  Joe 
had  a sure  berth,  and  wages  regularly  paid.  Pie 
didn’t  always  stick  to  his  work,  but  would  go  off 
on  a spree  every  now  and  then;  but  Slade  bore 
with  all  this,  and  worked  harder  himself  to  make 
up  for  his  hand’s  shortcoming.  And  no  matter 
what  deficiency  the  little  storeroom  at  home  might 
show,  Fanny  Morgan  never  found  her  meal  barrel 
empty  without  knowing  where  to  get  it  replen- 
ished. 

“ But,  after  Slade  sold  the  mill,  a sad  change 
took  place.  The  new  owner  was  little  disposed  to 
pay  wages  to  a hand  who  would  not  give  him  all 
his  time  during  working  hours;  and  in  less  than 
two  weeks  from  the  day  he  took  possession,  Mor- 
gan was  discharged.  Since  then,  he  has  been  work- 
ing about  at  one  odd  job  and  another,  earning 
scarcely  enough  to  buy  the  liquor  it  requires  to 
feed  the  inordinate  thirst  that  is  consuming  him. 
I am  not  disposed  to  blame  Simon  Slade  for  the 
wrong-doing  of  Morgan ; but  here  is  a simple  fact 
in  the  ease — if  he  had  kept  on  at  the  useful  calling 
of  a miller,  he  would  have  saved  this  man’s  family 
from  want,  suffering,  and  a lower  deep  of  misery 
than  that  into  which  they  have  already  fallen.  I 
merely  state  it,  and  you  can  draw  your  own  con- 
clusion. It  is  one  of  the  many  facts,  on  the  other 


NIGHT  THE  FIRST. 


side  of  this  tavern  question,  which  it  will  do  no 
harm  to  mention.  I have  noted  a good  many 
facts  besides,  and  one  is,  that  before  Slade  opened 
the  “ Sickle  and ’Sheaf,”  he  did  all  in  his  power  to 
save  his  early  friend  from  the  curse  of  intemper- 
ance; now  he  has  become  his  tempter.  Heretofore, 
it  was  his  hand  that  provided  the  means  for  his 
family  to  live  in  some  small  degree  of  comfort; 
now  he  takes  the  poor  pittance  the  wretched  man 
earns,  and  dropping  it  in  his  till,  forgets  the  wife 
and  children  at  home  who  are  hungry  for  the 
bread  this  money  should  have  purchased. 

“ Joe  Morgan,  fallen  as  he  is,  sir,  is  no  fool.  His 
mind  sees  quickly  yet;  and  he  rarely  utters  a senti- 
ment that  is  not  full  of  meaning.  When  he  spoke 
of  Slade's  heart  growing  as  hard  in  ten  years  as 
one  of  his  old  mill-stones,  he  was  not  uttering 
words  at  random,  nor  merely  indulging  in  a harsh 
sentiment,  little  caring  whether  it  were  closely 
applicable  or  not.  That  the  indurating  process 
had  begun,  he,  alas!  was  too  sadly  conscious.” 

The  landlord  had  been  absent  from  the  room  for 
some  time.  He  left  soon  after  Judge  Lyman,  Har- 
vey Green,  and  Willy  Hammond  withdrew,  and  I 
did  not  see  him  again  during  the  evening.  His 
son  Frank  was  left  to  attend  at  the  bar;  no  very 
hard  task,  for  not  more  than  half  a dozen  called  in 
to  drink  from  the  time  Morgan  left  until  the  bar 
was  closed. 

While  Mr.  Lyon  was  giving  me  the  brief  his- 
tory just  recorded,  I noticed  a little  incident  that 
caused  a troubled  feeling  to  pervade  my  mind. 
After  a man,  for  whom  the  landlord's  son  had 
prepared  a fancy  drink,  had  nearly  emptied  his 
glass,  he  sat  it  down  upon  the  counter  and  went 
out.  A tablespoonful  or  two  remained  in  the  glass, 
and  I noticed  Frank,  after  smelling  at  it  two  or 
three  times,  put  the  glass  to  his  lips  and  sip  the 


TEN  NIGHTS  IN  A BAR-ROOM. 


26 

sweetened  liquor.  The  flavor  proved  agreeable; 
for,  after  tasting  it,  he  raised  the  glass  again  and 
drained  every  drop. 

“ Frank !”  I heard  a low  voice,  in  a warning 
tone,  pronounce  the  name,  and  glancing  toward 
a door  partly  open,  that  led  from  the  inside  of  the 
bar  to  the  yard,  I saw  the  face  of  Mrs.  Slade.  It 
had  the  same  troubled  expression  I had  noticed 
before,  but  now  blended  with  more  of  anxiety. 

The  boy  went  out  at  the  call  of  his  mother;  and 
when  a new  customer  entered,  I noticed  that  Flora, 
the  daughter,  came  in  to  wait  upon  him.  I noticed, 
too,  that  while  she  poured  out  the  liquor,  there 
was  a heightened  color  on  her  face,  in  which  I 
fancied  that  I saw  a tinge  of  shame.  It  is  certain 
that  she  was  not  in  the  least  gracious  to  the  person 
on  whom  she  was  waiting;  and  that  there  was  little 
heart  in  her  manner  of  performing  the  task. 

Ten  o’clock  found  me  alone  and  musing  in  the 
bar-room  over  the  occurrences  of  the  evening.  Of 
all  the  incidents,  that  of  the  entrance  of  Joe  Mor- 
gan’s child  kept  the  most  prominent  place  in  my 
thoughts.  The  picture  of  that  mournful  little  face 
was  ever  before  me;  and  I seemed  all  the  while  to 
hear  the  word  “ Father,”  uttered  so  touchingly, 
and  yet  with  such  a world  of  chilctish  tenderness. 
And  the  man,  who  would  have  opposed  the  most 
stubborn  resistance  to  his  fellow-men,  had  they 
sought  to  force  him  from  the  room,  going  passive- 
ly, almost  meekly  out,  led  by  that  little  child — I 
could  not,  for  a time,  turn  my  thoughts  from  the 
image  thereof!  And  then  thought  bore  me  to  the 
wretched  home,  back  to  which  the  gentle,  loving 
child  had  taken  her  father,  and  my  heart  grew 
faint  in  me  as  imagination  busied  itself  with  all  the 
misery  there. 

And  Willy  Hammond.  The  little  that  I had 
heard  and  seen  of  him  greatly  interested  me  in  his 


NIGHT  THE  FIRST . 


27 

/avor.  Ah!  upon  what  dangerous  ground  was  he 
treading.  How  many  pitfalls  awaited  his  feet — 
how  near  they  were  to  the  brink  of  a fearful  preci- 
pice, down  which  to  fall  was  certain  destruction. 
How  beautiful  had  been  his  life-promise!  How 
fair  the  opening  day  of  his  existence!  Alas!  the 
clouds  were  gathering  already,  and  the  low  rumble 
of  the  distant  thunder  presaged  the  coming  of  a 
fearful  tempest.  Was  there  none  to  warn  him  of 
the  danger?  Alas!  all  might  now  come  too  late, 
for  so  few  who'  enter  the  path  in  which  his  steps 
were  treading  will  hearken  to  friendly  counsel,  or 
heed  the  solemn  warning.  Where  was  he  now? 
This  question  recurred  over  and  over  again.  He 
had  left  the  bar-room  with  Judge  Lyman  and 
Green  early  in  the  evening,  and  had  not  made  his 
appearance  since.  Who  and  what  was  Green? 
And  Judge  Lyman,  was  he  a man  of  principle? 
One  with  whom  it  was  safe  to  trust  a youth  like 
Willy  Hammond? 

While  I mused  thus,  the  bar-room  door  opened, 
and  a man  past  the  prime  of  life,  with  a somewhat 
florid  face,  which  gave  a strong  relief  to  the  gray, 
almost  white  hair  that,  suffered  to  grow  freely, 
was  pushed  back,  and  lay  in  heavy  masses  on  his 
coat  collar,  entered  with  a hasty  step.  He  was 
almost  venerable  in  appearance;  yet  there  was  in 
his  dark,  quick  eyes  the  brightness  of  unquenched 
loves,  the  fires  of  which  were  kindled  at  the  altars 
of  selfishness  and  sensuality.  This  I saw  at  a 
glance.  There  was  a look  of  concern  on  his  face, 
as  he  threw  his  eyes  around  the  bar-room ; and  he 
seemed  disappointed,  I thought,  at  finding  it 
empty. 

“ Is  Simon  Slade  here?  ” 

As  I answered  in  the  negative,  Mrs.  Slade  en- 
tered through  the  door  that  opened  from  the  yard, 
and  stood  behind  the  counter. 


TEN  NI&BT*  IN  A BAR-ROOM. 


28 

/“  Ah^Mrs.  Glade !_  Good  evening,  madam!  ” he 
saidG 

“ Good-evening,  Judge  Hammond.” 

“ Is  your  husband  at  home?” 

“ I believe  he  is,”  answered  Mrs.  Slade.  “ I think 
he’s  somewhere  about  the  house.” 

“ Ask  him  to  step  here,  will  you?  ” 

Mrs.  Slade  went  out.  Nearly  five  minutes  went 
by,  during  which  time  Judge  Hammond  paced 
the  floor  of  the  bar-room  uneasily.  Then  the  land- 
lord made  his  appearance.  The  free,  open,  manly, 
self-satisfied  expression  of  his  countenance,  which 
I had  remarked  on  alighting  from  the  stage  in  the 
afternoon,  was  gone.  I noticed  at  once  the  change, 
for  it  was  striking.  He  did  not  look  steadily  into 
the  face  of  Judge  Hammond,  who  asked  him,  in  a 
low  voice,  if  his  son  had  been  there  during  the 
evening. 

“ He  was  here,”  said  Slade. 

“ When?  ” ^ 

“ He  came  in  some  time  after  dark  and  stayed, 
maybe,  an  hour.” 

“ And  hasn’t  been  here  since?  ” 

“ It’s  nearly  two  hours  since  he  left  the  bar- 
room,” replied  the  landlord. 

Judge  Hammond  seemed  perplexed.  There  was 
a degree  of  evasion  in  Slade’s  manner  that  he 
could  hardly  help  noticing.  To  me  it  was  all  appa- 
rent, for  I had  lively  suspicions  that  made  my  ob- 
servation acute. 

Judge  Hammond  crossed  his  arms  behind  him, 
and  took  three  or  four  strides  about  the  floor. 

“ Was  Judge  Lyman  here  to-night?”  he  then 
asked. 

“ He  was,”  answered  Slade. 

“ Did  he  and  Willy  go  out  together?” 

The  question  seemed  an  unexpected  one  for  the 


NIGHT  THE  FIRST.  29 

landlord.  Slade  appeared  slightly  confused,  and 
did  not  answer  promptly. 

“ I — I rather  think  they  did/’  he  said,  after  a 
brief  hesitation. 

“ Ah,  well!  Perhaps  he  is  at  Judge  Lyman’s.  I 
will  call  over  there.” 

And  Judge  Hammond  left  the  bar-room. 

“ Would  you  like  to  retire,  sir?  ” said  the  land- 
lord, now  turning  to  me,  with  a forced  smile — I 
saw  that  it  was  forced. 

“ If  you  please,”  I answered. 

He  lit  a candle  and  conducted  me  to  my  room, 
where,  overwearied  with  the  day’s  exertion,  I soon 
fell  asleep,  and  did  not  awake  until  the  sun  was 
shining  brightly  into  my  windows. 

I remained  at  the  village  a portion  of  the  day, 
but  saw  nothing  of  the  parties  in  whom  the  inci- 
dents of  the  previous  evening  had  awakened  a 
lively  interest.  At  four  o’clock  I left  in  the  stage, 
and  did  not  visit  C^dawlle  again  for  a year. 


30 


TEN  NIGHTS  IN  A BAR-ROOM. 


NIGHT  THE  SECO.NP. 

THE  CHANGES  OP  A YEAR. 

A cordial  grasp  of  the  hand  and  a few  words  ol 
hearty  welcome  greeted  me  as  I alighted  from  the 
stage  at  the  “ Sickle  and  Sheaf,”  on  my  next  visit 
to  Cedarville.  At  the  first  glance,  I saw  no  change 
in  the  countenance,  manner,  or  general  bearing  of 
Simon  Slade,  the  landlord.  With  him,  the  year 
seemed  to  have  passed  like  a pleasant  summer  day. 
His  face  was  round,  and  full,  and  rosy,  and  his 
eyes  sparkled  with  that  good-humor  which  flows 
from  intense  self-satisfaction.  Everything  about 
him  seemed  to  say — “ All  right  with  myself  and 
the  world.” 

I had  scarcely  expected  this.  From  what  I saw 
during  my  last  brief  sojourn  at  the  “ Sickle  and 
Sheaf,”  the  inference  was  natural,  that  elements 
had  been  called  into  activity,  which  must  produce 
changes  adverse  to  those  pleasant  states  of  mind 
that  threw  an  almost  perpetual  sunshine  over  the 
landlord's  countenance.  How  many  hundreds  of 
times  had  I thought  of  Joe  Morgan  and  Willy 
Hammond — of  Frank,  and  the  temptations  to 
which  a bar-room  exposed  him.  The  heart  of 
Slade  must,  indeed,  be  as  hard  as  one  of  his  old 
mill-stones,  if  he  could  remain  an  unmoved  wit- 
ness of  the  corruption  and  degradation  of  these. 

“ My  fears  have  outrun  the  actual  progress  of 
things,”  said  I to  myself,  with  a sense  of  relief,  as> 
I mused  alone  in  the  still  neatly  arranged  sittings 
room,  after  the  landlord,  who  sat  and  chatted  for  a 
few  minutes,  had  left  me.  “ There  is,  I am  willing 


NIGHT  THE  SECOND. 


31 

to  believe,  a basis  of  good  in  this  man’s  character, 
which  has  led  him  to  remove,  as  far  as  possible,  the 
more  palpable  evils  that  ever  attach  themselves  to 
a house  of  public  entertainment.  He  had  but  en- 
tered on  the  business  last  year.  There  was  much 
to  be  learned,  pondered,  and  corrected.  Experi- 
ence, I doubt  not,  has  led  to  many  important 
changes  in  the  manner  of  conducting  the  establish- 
ment, and  especially  in  what  pertains  to  the  bar.” 
As  I thought  thu9,  my  eyes  glanced  through 
the  half-open  door,  and  rested  on  the  face  of  Simon 
Slade.  He  was  standing  behind  his  bai? — evident- 
ly alone  in  the  room — with  his  head  bent  in  a 
musing  attitude.  At  first  I was  in  some  doubt  as 
to  the  identity  of  the  singularly  changed  counte- 
nance. Two  deep  perpendicular  seams  lay  sharply 
defined  on  his  forehead — the  arch  of  his  eyebrows 
was  gone,  and  from  each  corner  of  his  compressed 
lips,  lines  were  seen  reaching  half-way  to  the  chin. 
Blending  with  a slightly  troubled  expression,  was 
a strongly  marked  selfishness,  evidently  brooding 
over  the  consummation  of  its  purpose.  For  some 
moments  I sat  gazing  on  his  face,  half  doubting  at 
times  if  it  were  really  that  of  Simon  Slade.  Sud- 
denly, a gleam  flashed  over  it — an  ejaculation  was 
uttered,  and  one  clenched  hand  brought  down, 
with  a sharp  stroke,  into  the  open  palm  of  the 
other.  The  landlord’s  mind  had  reached  a con- 
clusion, and  was  resolved  upon  action.  There 
were  no  warm  rays  in  the  gleam  of  light  that  irra- 
diated his  countenance — at  least  none  for  my  heart, 
which  felt  under  them  an  almost  icy  coldness.  * 

“ Just  the  man  I was  thinking  about,”  I heard 
the  landlord  say,  as  some  one  entered  the  bar, 
while  his  whole  manner  underwent  a sudden 
change. 

* “ The  old  saying  is  true,”  was  answered  in  a 

voice,  the  tones  of  which  were  familiar  to  my  ears. 


32  TEN  NIGHTS  IN  A BAR-ROOM. 

“ Thinking  of  the  old  Harry?  ” said  Slade. 

“ Yes.” 

“ True,  literally,  in  the  present  case,,,  I heard 
the  landlord  remark,  though  in  a much  lower  tone; 
“ for,  if  you  are  not  the  devil  himself,  you  can’t  be 
farther  removed  than  a second  cousin.” 

A low,  gurgling  laugh  met  this  little  sally.  There 
was  something  in  it  so  unlike  a human  laugh,  that 
it  caused  my  blood  to  trickle,  for  a moment,  coldly 
along  my  veins. 

I heard  nothing  more  except  the  murmur  of 
voices  in  the  bar,  for  a hand  shut  the  partly  opened 
door  that  led  from  the  sitting-room. 

Whose  was  that  voice?  I recalled  its  tones,  and 
tried  to  fix  in  my  thought  the  person  to  whom  it 
belonged,  but  was  unable  to  do  so.  I was  not  very 
long  in  doubt,  for  on  stepping  out  upon  the  porch 
in  front  of  the  tavern,  the  well-remembered  face 
of  Harvey  Green  presented  itself.  He  stood  in  the 
bar-room  door,  and  was  talking  earnestly  to  Slade, 
whose  back  was  toward  me.  I saw  that  he  recog- 
nized me,  although  I had  not  passed  a word  with 
him  on  the  occasion  of  my  former  visit;  and  there 
was  a lighting  up  of  his  countenance  as  if  about  to 
speak — but  I withdrew  my  eyes  from  his  face  to 
avoid  the  unwelcome  greeting.  When  I looked 
at  him  again,  I saw  that  he  was  regarding  me  with 
a sinister  glance,  which  was  instantly  withdrawn. 
In  what  broad,  black  characters  was  the  word 
Tempter  written  on  his  face!  How  was  it  possible 
for  any  one  to  look  thereon,  and  not  read  the 
warning  inscription ! 

Soon  after,  he  withdrew  into  the  bar-room,  and 
the  landlord  came  and  took  a seat  near  me  on  the 
porch. 

“ How  is  the  Sickle  and  Sheaf  coming  on?”  I 
inquired. 

“ First-rate,”  was  the  answer — “ First-rate.” 


NIGHT  THE  SECOND . 


33 


“ As  well  as  you  expected?  ” 

“ Better.” 

“Satisfied  with  your  experiment?” 

“ Perfectly.  Couldn’t  get  me  back  to  the  rum- 
bling old  mill  again,  if  you  were  to  make  me  a 
present  of  it.” 

“ What  of  the  mill?”  I asked.  “ How  does  the 
new  owner  come  on?  ” 

“ About  as  I thought  it  would  be.” 

“ Not  doing  very  well?  ” 

“ How  could  it  be  expected,  when  he  didn’t 
know  enough  of  the  milling  business  to  grind  a 
bushel  of  wheat  right.  He  lost  half  of  the  custom 
I transferred  to  him  in  less  than  three  months. 
Then  he  broke  his  main  shaft,  and  it  took  over 
three  weeks  to  get  in  a new  one.  Half  of  his  re- 
maining customers  discovered  by  this  time,  that 
they  could  get  far  better  meal  from  their  grain  at 
Harwood’s  mill  near  Lynwood,  and  so  did  not 
care  to  trouble  him  any  more.  The  upshot  of  the 
whole  matter  is,  he  broke  down  next,  and  had  to 
sell  the  mill  at  a heavy  loss.” 

“ Who  has  it  now?  ” 

“ Judge  Hammond  is  the  purchaser.” 

“ He  is  going  to  rent  it,  I suppose?  ” 

“ No  ; I believe  he  means  to  turn  it  into  some 
kind  of  a factory — and,  I rather  think,  will  connect 
therewith  a distillery.  This  is  a fine  grain-growing 
country,  as  you  know.  If  he  does  set  up  a dis- 
tillery, he’N  make  a fine  thing  of  it.  Grain  has  been 
too  low  in  this  section  for  some  years ; this  all  the 
farmers  have  felt,  and  they  are  very  much  pleased 
at  the  idea.  It  will  help  them  wonderfully.  I 
always  thought  my  mill  a great  thing  for  the  farm- 
ers ; but  what  I did  for  them  was  a mere  song  com- 
pared to  the  advantage  of  an  extensive  distillery.” 
“ Judge  Hammond  is  one  of  your  richest  men?  ” 
“ Yes — the  richest  in  the  county.  And  what  is 


34  TEN  nights  in  a bar-room. 

more,  he’s  a shrewd,  far-seeing  man,  and  knowi 
how  to  multiply  his  riches.” 

“ How  is  his  son  Willy  coming  on?  ” 

“ Oh!  first-rate.” 

The  landlord’s  eyes  fell  under  the  searching  look 
I bent  upon  him. 

“ How  old  is  he  now?  ” 

“ Just  twenty.” 

“ A critical  age,”  I remarked. 

“ So  people  say;  but  I didn’t  find  it  so,”  answered 
Slade,  a little  distantly. 

“ The  impulses  within  and  the  temptations  with- 
out are  the  measure  of  its  dangers.  At  his  age, 
you  were,  no  doubt,  daily  employed  at  hard  work.” 
“ I was,  and  no  mistake.” 

“ Thousands  and  hundreds  of  thousands  are  in- 
debted to  useful  work,  occupying  many  hours 
through  each  day,  and  leaving  them  with  wearied 
bodies  at  night,  for  their  safe  passage  from  yield- 
ing youth  to  firm,  resisting  manhood.  It  might 
not  be  with  you  as  it  is  now,  had  leisure  and  free- 
dom to  go  in  and  out  when  you  pleased  been 
offered  at  the  age  of  nineteen.” 

“ I can’t  tell  as  to  that,”  said  the  landlord,  shrug- 
ging his  shoulders.  “ But  I don’t  see  that  Willy 
Hammond  is  in  any  especial  danger.  He  is  a 
young  man  with  many  admirable  qualities — is 
social — liberal — generous  almost  to  a fault — but 
has  good  common  sense,  and  wit  enough,  I take  it, 
to  keep  out  of  harm’s  way.” 

A man  passing  the  house  at  the  moment  gave 
Simon  Slade  an  opportunity  to  break  off  a con- 
versation that  was  not,  I could  see,  altogether 
agreeable.  As  he  left  me,  I arose  and  stepped  into 
the  bar-room.  Frank,  the  landlord’s  son,  was 
behind  the  bar.  He  had  grown  considerably  in 
the  year — and  from  a rather  delicate,  innocent- 
looking boy,  to  a stout,  bold  lad.  His  face  was 


NIGHT  THE  SECOND.  35 

rounder,  and  had  a gross,  sensual  expression,  that 
showed  itself  particularly  about  the  mouth.  The 
man  Green  was  standing  beside  the  bar  talking  to 
him,  and  I noticed  that  Frank  laughed  heartily,  at 
some  low,  half  obscene  remarks  that  he  was  mak- 
ing. In  the  midst  of  these,  Flora,  the  sister  of 
Frank,  a really  beautiful  girl,  came  in  to  get  some- 
thing from  the  bar.  Green  spoke  to  her  familiarly, 
and  Flora  answered  him  with  a perceptibly  height- 
ened color. 

I glanced  toward  Frank,  half  expecting  to  see 
an  indignant  flush  on  his  young  face.  But  no — he 
looked  on  with  a smile!  “ Ah!  " thought  I,  “ have 
the  boy's  pure  impulses  so  soon  died  out  in  this 
fatal  atmosphere?  Can  he  bear  to  see  those  evil 
eyes — he  knows  they  are  evil — rest  upon  the  face 
of  his  sister?  or  to  hear  those  lips,  only  a moment 
since  polluted  with  vile  words,  address  her  with 
the  familiarity  of  a friend?  " 

“ Fine  girl,  that  sister  of  yours,  Frank!  Fine 
girl!"  said  Green,  after  Flora  had  withdrawn — 
speaking  of  her  with  about  as  much  respect  in  his 
voice  as  if  he  were  praising  a fleet  racer  or  favorite 
hound. 

The  boy  smiled,  with  a pleased  air. 

“ I must  try  and  find  her  a good  husband, 
Frank.  I wonder  if  she  wouldn't  have  me." 

“ You'd  better  ask  her,"  said  the  boy,  laughing. 

“ I would,  if  I thought  there  was  any  chance 
for  me." 

“ Nothing  like  trying.  Faint  heart  never  won 
fair  lady,"  returned  Frank,  more  with  the  air  of  a 
man  than  a boy.  How  fast  he  was  growing  old! 

“A  banter,  by  George!"  exclaimed  Green,  slap- 
ping his  hands  together.  “ You're  a great  boy, 
Frank!  a great  boy!  I shall  have  to  talk  to  your 
father  about  you.  Coming  on  too  fast.  Flave  to 
be  put  back  in  your  lessons — hey!  " 


36  TEN  nights  in  a bar-room. 

And  Green  winked  at  the  boy  and  shook  his 
finger  at  him.  Frank  laughed  in  a pleased  way, 
as  he  replied: 

“ I guess  I’ll  do.” 

“ I guess  you  will,”  said  Green,  as,  satisfied  with 
his  colloquy,  he  turned  off  and  left  the  bar-room. 

“ Have  something  to  drink,  sir?  ” inquired 
Frank,  addressing  me  in  a bold,  free  way. 

I shook  my  head. 

“ Here’s  a newspaper,”  he  added. 

I took  the  paper  and  sat  down — not  to  read, 
but  to  observe.  Two  or  three  men  soon  came  in, 
and  spoke  in  a very  familiar  way  to  Frank,  who 
was  presently  busy  setting  out  the  liquors  they 
had  called  for.  Their  conversation,  interlarded 
with  much  that  was  profane  and  vulgar,  was  of 
horses,  horse-racing,  gunning,  and  the  like,  to  all 
of  which  the  young  bar-keeper  lent  an  attentive 
ear,  putting  in  a word  now  and  then,  and  showing 
an  intelligence  in  such  matters  quite  beyond  his 
age.  In  the  midst  thereof,  Mr.  Slade  made  his 
appearance.  His  presence  caused  a marked  change 
in  Frank,  who  retired  from  his  place  among 
the  men,  a step  or  two  outside  the  bar,  and  did 
not  make  a remark  while  his  father  remained. 
It  was  plain  from  this,  that  Mr.  Slade  was  not 
only  aware  of  Frank’s  dangerous  precocity,  but 
had  already  marked  his  forwardness  by  rebuke. 

So  far,  all  that  I had  seen  and  heard  impressed 
me  unfavorably,  notwithstanding  the  declaration 
of  Simon  Slade,  that  everything  about  the  “Sickle 
and  Sheaf  ” was  coming  on  “ first-rate,”  and  that 
he  was  “ perfectly  satisfied  ” with  his  experiment. 
Why,  even  if  the  man  had  gained,  in  money,  fifty 
thousand  dollars  by  tavern-keeping  in  a year,  he 
had  lost  a jewel  in  the  innocence  of  his  boy  that 
was  beyond  all  valuation.  “ Perfectly  satisfied  ? ” 
Impossible!  He  was  not  perfectly  satisfied.  How 


NIGHT  THE  SECOND. 


37 

could  he  be?  The  look  thrown  upon  Frank  when 
he  entered  the  bar-room,  and  saw  him  “ hail  fel- 
low, well  met,”  with  three  or  four  idle,  profane, 
drinking  customers,  contradicted  that  assertion. 

After  supper,  I took  a seat  in  the  bar-room,  to 
see  how  life  moved  on  in  that  place  of  rendezvous 
for  the  surface-population  of  Cedarville.  Interest 
enough  in  the  characters  I had  met  there  a year 
before  remained  for  me  to  choose  this  way  of 
spending  the  time,  instead  of  visiting  at  the  house 
of  a gentleman  who  had  kindly  invited  me  to  pass 
an  evening  with  his  family. 

The  bar-room  custom,  I soon  found,  had 
largely  increased  in  a year.  It  now  required,  for 
a good  part  of  the  time,  the  active  services  of 
both  the  landlord  and  his  son  to  meet  the  calls 
for  liquor.  What  pained  me  most,  was  to  see  the 
large  number  of  lads  and  young  men  who  came 
in  to  lounge  and  drink;  and  there  was  scarcely 
one  of  them  whose  face  did  not  show  marks  of 
sensuality,  or  whose  language  was  not  marred  by 
obscenity,  profanity,  or  vulgar  slang.  The  sub- 
jects of  conversation  were  varied  enough,  though 
politics  was  the  most  prominent.  In  regard  to 
politics,  I heard  nothing  in  the  least  instructive; 
but  only  abuse  of  individuals  and  dogmatism  on 
public  measures.  They  were  all  exceedingly  confi- 
dent in  assertion ; but  I listened  in  vain  for  expo- 
sition, or  even  for  demonstrative  facts.  He  who 
asseverated  in  the  most  positive  manner,  and 
swore  the  hardest,  carried  the  day  in  the  petty 
contests. 

I noticed,  early  in  the  evening,  and  at  a time 
when  all  the  inmates  of  the  room  were  in  the  best 
possible  humor  with  themselves,  the  entrance  of 
an  elderly  man,  on  whose  face  I instantly  read  a 
deep  concern.  It  was  one  of  those  mild,  yet 
strongly  marked  faces,  that  strikes  you  at  a 


38  ten  nights  in  a bar-room. 

glance.  The  forehead  was  broad,  the  eyes  large 
and  far  back  in  their  sockets,  the  lips  full  but  firm. 
You  saw  evidences  of  a strong,  but  well-balanced 
character.  As  he  came  in,  I noticed  a look  of  in- 
telligence pass  from  one  to  another!  and  then  the 
eyes  of  two  or  three  were  fixed  upon  a young  man 
who  was  seated  not  far  from  me,  with  his  back  to 
the  entrance,  playing  at  dominoes.  He  had  a 
glass  of  ale  by  his  side.  The  old  man  searched 
about  the  room  for  a few  moments,  before  his 
glance  rested  upon  the  individual  I had  men- 
tioned. My  eyes  were  full  upon  his  face,  as  he  ad- 
vanced toward  him,  yet  unseen.  Upon  it  was  not 
a sign  of  angry  excitement,  but  a most  touching 
sorrow. 

“ Edward!  ” he  said,  as  he  laid  his  hand  gently 
on  the  young  man’s  shoulder.  The  latter  started 
at  the  voice,  and  crimsoned  deeply.  A few  mo- 
ments he  sat  irresolute. 

“ Edward,  my  son!”  It  would  have  been  a 
cold,  hard  heart  indeed  that  softened  not  under 
the  melting  tenderness  of  those  tones.  The  call 
was  irresistible,  and  obedience  a necessity.  The 
powers  of  evil  had,  yet,  too  feeble  a grasp  on  the 
young  man’s  heart  to  hold  him  in  thrall.  Rising 
with  a half-reluctant  manner,  and  with  a shame- 
facedness that  it  was  impossible  to  conceal,  he  re- 
tired as  quietly  as  possible.  The  notice  of  only  a 
few  in  the  bar-room  was  attracted  by  the  incident. 

“ I can  tell  you  what,”  I heard  the  individual, 
with  whom  the  young  man  had  been  playing  at 
dominoes,  remark — himself  not  twenty  years  of 
age — “ if  my  old  man  were  to  make  a fool  of  him- 
self in  this  way — sneaking  around  after  me  in  bar- 
rooms— he’d  get  only  his  trouble  for  his  pains. 
I’d  like  to  see  him  try  it,  though!  There’d  be  a 
nice  time  of  it,  I guess.  Wouldn’t  I creep  off 
with  him,  as  meek  as  a lamb!  Ho!  ho!  ” 


CNIGHT  THE  SECOND.  39 

“ Who  is  that  old  gentleman  who  came  in  just 
now?  ” I inquired  of  the  person  who  thus  com- 
mented on  the  incident  which  had  just  occurred. 

“ Mr.  Hargrove  is  his  name.” 

“ And  was  that  his  son?  ” 

“ Yes;  and  I’m  only  sorry  he  doesn’t  possess  a 
little  more  spirit.” 

“ How  old  is  he?  ” 

“ About  twenty.” 

“ Not  of  legal  age,  then?  ” 

“ He’s  old  enough  to  be  his  own  master.” 

“ The  law  says  differently,”  I suggested. 

In  answer,  the  young  man  cursed  the  law,  snap- 
ping his  fingers  in  its  imaginary  face,  as  he  did  so. 

“ At  least  you  will  admit,”  said  I,  “ that  Edward 
Hargrove,  in  the  use  of  a liberty  to  go  where  he 
pleases,  and  do  what  he  pleases,  exhibits  but  small 
discretion.” 

“ I will  admit  no  such  thing.  What  harm  is 
there,  I would  like  to  know,  in  a social  little  game 
such  as  we  were  playing?  There  were  no  stakes — 
we  were  no’t  gambling.” 

I pointed  to  the  half-emptied  glass  of  ale  left  by 
young  Hargrove. 

“Oh!  oh!”  half  sneered,  half  laughed  a man, 
twice  the  age  of  the  one  I had  addressed,  who  sat 
near  by,  listening  to  our  conversation.  I looked 
at  him  for  a moment,  and  then  said : 

“ The  great  danger  lies  there,  without  doubt.  If 
it  were  only  a glass  of  ale  and  a game  of  dominoes 
— but  it  doesn't  stop  there,  and  well  the  young 
man’s  father  knows  it.” 

“ Perhaps  he  does,”  was  answered.  “ I remem- 
ber him  in  his  younger  days;  and  a pretty  high 
boy  he  was.  He  didn’t  stop  at  a glass  of  ale  and  a 
game  of  dominoes;  not  he!  I’ve  seen  him  as  drunk 
as  a lord  many  a time;  and  many  a time  at  a horse- 
race, or  cock-fight,  betting  with  the  bravest.  I 


40  TEN  NIGHTS  IN  A BAR-ROOM . 

was  only  a boy,  though  a pretty  old  boy;  but  I 
can  tell  you,  Hargrove  was  no  saint.” 

“ I wonder  not,  then,  that  he  is  anxious  for  his 
son,”  was  my  remark.  “ He  knows  well  the  lurk- 
ing dangers  in  the  path  he  seems  inclined  to  enter.” 
“ I don't  see  that  they  have  done  him  much 
harm.  He  sowed  his  wild  oats — then  got  married, 
and  settled  down  into  a good,  substantial  citizen. 
A little  too  religious  and  pharisaical,  I always 
thought;  but  upright  in  his  dealings.  He  had  his 
pleasures  in  early  life,  as  was  befitting  the  season 
of  youth — why  not  let  his  son  taste  of  the  same 
agreeable  fruit?  He's  wrong,  sir — wrong!  And 
I've  said  as  much  to  Ned.  I only  wish  the  boy  had 
showed  the  right  spunk  this  evening,  and  told  the 
old  man  to  go  home  about  his  business.” 

“ So  do  I,”  chimed  in  the  young  disciple  in  this 
bad  school.  “ It's  what  I'd  say  to  my  old  man,  in 
double-quick  time,  if  he  was  to  come  hunting  after 
me.” 

“ He  knows  better  than  to  do  that,”  said  the 
other,  in  a way  that  let  me  deeper  into  the  young 
man's  character. 

/'Indeed  he  does.  He's  tried  his  hand  on  me 
once  or  twice  during  the  last  year,  but  found  it 
wouldn’t  do,  no  how;  Tom  Peters  is  out  of  his 
leading-strings.” 

“ And  can  drink  his  glass  with  any  one,  and  not 
be  a grain  the  worse  for  it.” 

“Exactly,  old  boy!”  said  Peters,  slapping  his 
preceptor  on  the  knee.  “ Exactly!  I'm  not  one  of 
your  weak-headed  ones.  Oh  no!  ” 

“Look  here,  Joe  Morgan!” — the  half-angry 
voice  of  Simon  Slade  now  rung  through  the  bar- 
room,— “ just  take  yourself  off  home!  ” 

I had  not  observed  the  entrance  of  this  person. 
He  was  standing  at  the  bar,  with  an  emptied  glass 
in  his  hand.  A year  had  made  no  improvement  in 


NIGHT  THE  SECOND, 


41 

Ins  appearance.  On  the  contrary,  his  clothes  were 
more  worn  and  tattered;  his  countenance  more 
sadly  marred.  What  he  had  said  to  irritate  the 
landlord,  I know  not;  but  Slade's  face  was  fiery 
with  passion,  and  his  eyes  glared  threateningly  at 
the  poor  besotted  one,  who  showed  not  the  least 
inclination  to  obey. 

“ Off  with  you,  I say ! And  never  show  your 
face  here  again.  I won’t  have  such  low  vagabonds 
as  you  are  about  my  house.  If  you  can't  keep  de- 
cent and  stay  decent,  don’t  intrude  yourself  here.” 

“ A rum-seller  talk  of  decency!  ” retorted  Mor- 
gan. “ Pah!  You  were  a decent  man  once,  and  a 
good  miller  into  the  bargain.  But  that  time's  past 
and  g~one.  Decency  died  out  when  you  exchanged 
the  pick  and  facing-hammer  far  the  glass  and  mud- 
dler. Decency!  Pah!  How  you  talk!  As  if  it  were 
any  more  decent  to  sell  rum  than  to  drink  it.” 

There  was  so  much  of  biting  contempt  in  the 
tones,  as  well  as  the  words  of  the  half-intoxicated 
man,  that  Slade,  who  had  himself  been  drinking 
rather  more  freely  than  usual,  was  angered  beyond 
self-control.  Catching  up  an  empty  glass  from 
the  counter,  he  hurled  it  with  all  his  strength  at 
the  head  of  Joe  Morgan.  The  missive  just  grazed 
one  of  his  temples,  and  flew  by  on  its  dangerous 
course.  The  quick,  sharp  cry  of  a child  startled 
the  air,  followed  by  exclamations  of  alarm  and 
horror  from  many  voices. 

“ It's  Joe  Morgan's  child!  ” “ He's  killed  her!  ” 
“ Good  heavens ! ” Such  were  the  exclamations 
that  rang  through  the  room.  I was  among  the 
first  to  reach  the  spot  where  a little  girl,  just  glid- 
ing through  the  door,  had  been  struck  on  the 
forehead  by  the  glass,  which  had  cut  a deep  gash, 
and  stunned  her  into  insensibility.  The  blood 
flowed  instantly  from  the  wound,  and  covered  her 
face,  which  presented  a shocking  appearance.  As 


42  TEN  nights  in  a bar-room. 

I lifted  her  from  the  floor,  upon  which  she  had 
fallen,  Morgan,  into  whose  very  soul  the  piercing 
cry  of  his  child  had  penetrated,  stood  by  my  side, 
and  grappled  his  arms  around  her  insensible  form, 
uttering  as  he  did  so  heart-touching  moans  and 
lamentations. 

“What’s  the  matter?  Oh,  what’s  the  matter?” 
It  was  a woman’s  voice,  speaking  in  frightened 
tones. 

“ It’s  nothing!  Just  go  out,  will  you,  Ann?”  I 
heard  the  landlord  say. 

But  his  wife — it  was  Mrs.  Slade — having  heard 
the  shrieks  of  pain  and  terror  uttered  by  Morgan’s 
child,  had  come  running  into  the  bar-room — heed- 
ed not  his  words,  but  pressed  forward  into  the 
little  group  that  stood  around  the  bleeding  girl. 

“ Run  for  Doctor  Green,  Frank,”  she  cried  in 
an  imperative  voice,  the  moment  her  eyes  rested 
on  the  little  one’s  bloody  face. 

Frank  came  around  from  behind  the  bar,  in 
obedience  to  the  word;  but  his  father  gave  a 
partial  countermand,  and  he  stood  still.  Upon 
observing  which,  his  mother  repeated  the  order, 
even  more  emphatically. 

“ Why  don’t  you  jump,  you  young  rascal!  ” ex- 
claimed Harvey  Green.  “ The  child  may  be  dead 
before  the  doctor  can  get  here.” 

Frank  hesitated  no  longer,  but  disappeared  in- 
stantly through  the  door. 

“ Poor,  poor  child!  ” almost  sobbed  Mrs.  Slade, 
as  she  lifted  the  insensible  form  from  my  arms. 
“ How  did  it  happen?  Who  struck  her?  ” 

“Who?  Curse  him!  Who  but  Simon  Slade?” 
answered  Joe  Morgan,  through  his  clenched  teeth. 

The  look  of  anguish,  mingled  with  bitter  re- 
proach, instantly  thrown  upon  the  landlord  by  his 
wife,  can  hardly  be  forgotten  by  any  who  saw  it 
that  night. 


NIGHT  THE  SECOND. 


43 

“ Oh,  Simon!  Simon!  And  has  it  come  to  this 
already?”  What  a world  of  bitter  memories,  and 
sad  forebodings  of  evil,  did  that  little  sentence 
express.  “ To  this  already” — Ah!  In  the  down- 
ward way,  how  rapidly  the  steps  do  tread — how 
fast  the  progress ! 

“ Bring  me  a basin  of  water,  and  a towel, 
quickly!  ” she  now  exclaimed. 

The  water  was  brought,  and  in  a little  while  the 
face  of  the  child  lay  pure  and  white  as  snow 
against  her  bosom.  The  wound  from  which  the 
blood  had  flowed  so  freely  was  found  on  the  upper 
part  of  the  forehead,  a little  to  the  side,  and  ex- 
tending several  inches  back,  along  the  top  of  the 
head.  As  soon  as  the  blood  stains  were  wiped 
away,  and  the  effusion  partially  stopped,  Mrs. 
Slade  carried  the  still  insensible  body  into  the  next 
room,  whither  the  distressed,  and  now  completely 
sobered  father,  accompanied  her.  I went  with 
them,  but  Slade  remained  behind. 

The  arrival  of  the  doctor  was  soon  followed  by 
the  restoration  of  life  to  the  inanimate  body.  He 
happened  to  be  at  home,  and  came  instantly.  He 
had  just  taken  the  last  stitch  in  the  wound,  which 
required  to  be  drawn  together,  and  was  applying 
strips  of  adhesive  plaster,  when  the  hurried  en- 
trance of  some  one  caused  me  to  look  up.  What 
an  apparition  met  my  eyes ! A woman  stood  in  the 
door,  with  a face  in  which  maternal  anxiety  and 
terror  blended  fearfully.  Her  countenance  was 
like  ashes — her  eyes  straining  wildly — her  lips 
apart,  while  the  panting  breath  almost  hissed 
through  them. 

“ Joe!  Joe!  What  is  it?  Where  is  Mary?  Is  she 
dead?  ” were  her  eager  inquiries. 

“ No,  Fanny,”  answered  Joe  Morgan,  starting 
up  from  where  he  was  actually  kneeling  by  the 
side  of  the  reviving  little  one,  and  going  quickly 


TEN  NIGHTS  IN  A BAR-ROOM. 


44 

to  his  wife.  “ She’s  better  now.  It’s  a bad  hurt, 
but  the  doctor  says  it’s  nothing  dangerous.  Poor, 
dear  child!  ” 

The  pale  face  of  the  mother  grew  paler — she 
gasped — caught  for  breath  two  or  three  times — a 
low  shudder  ran  through  her  frame — and  then  she 
lay  white  and  pulseless  in  the  arms  of  her  husband. 
As  the  doctor  applied  restoratives,  I had  oppor- 
tunity to  note  more  particularly  the  appearance 
of  Mrs.  Morgan.  Her  person  was  very  slender, 
and  her  face  so  attenuated  that  it  might  almost  be 
called  shadowy.  Her  hair,  which  was  a rich  chest- 
nut brown,  with  a slight  golden  lustre,  had  fallen 
from  her  comb,  and  now  lay  all  over  her  neck  and 
bosom  in  beautiful  luxuriance.  Back  from  her  full 
temples  it  had  been  smoothed  away  by  the  hand 
of  Morgan,  that  all  the  while  moved  over  her  brow 
and  temples  with  a caressing  motion  that  I saw 
was  unconscious,  and  which  revealed  the  tender- 
ness of  feeling  with  which,  debased  as  he  was,  he 
regarded  the  wife  of  his  youth,  and  the  long-suf- 
fering companion  of  his  later  and  evil  days.  Her 
dress  was  plain  and  coarse,  but  clean  and  well  fit- 
ting; and  about  her  whole  person  was  an  air  of 
neatness  and  taste.  She  could  not  now  be  called 
beautiful;  yet  in  her  marred  features — marred  by 
suffering  and  grief — were  many  lineaments  of 
beauty;  and  much  that  told  of  a pure,  true  wo- 
man’s heart  beating  in  her  bosom.  Life  came 
slowly  back  to  the  stilled  heart,  and  it  was  nearly 
half  an  hour  before  the  circle  of  motion  was  fully 
restored. 

Then,  the  twain,  with  their  child,  tenderly  borne 
in  the  arms  of  her  father,  went  sadly  homeward, 
leaving  more  than  one  heart  heavier  for  their  visit. 

I saw  more  of  the  landlord’s  wife  on  this  oc- 
casion than  before.  She  had  acted  with  a prompt- 
ness and  humanity  that  impressed  me  very  favor- 


NIGHT  THE  SECOND . 


45 

ably.  It  was  plain,  from  her  exclamations  on  learn- 
ing that  her  husband’s  hand  inflicted  the  blow  that 
came  so  near  destroying  the  child’s  life,  tha*  her 
faith  for  good  in  the  tavern-keeping  experiment 
had  never  been  strong.  I had  already  inferred  as 
much.  Her  face,  the  few  times  I had  seen  her, 
wore  a troubled  look;  and  I could  never  forget  its 
expression,  nor  her  anxious,  warning  voice,  when 
she  discovered  Frank  sipping  the  dregs  from  a 
glass  in  the  bar-room. 

It  is  rarely,  I believe,  that  wives  consent  freely 
to  the  opening  of  taverns  by  their  husbands;  and 
the  determination  on  the  part  of  the  latter  to  do 
so,  is  not  unfrequently  attended  with  a breach  of 
confidence  and  good  feeling  never  afterward  fully 
healed.  Men  look  close  to  the  money  result;  wo- 
men to  the  moral  consequences.  I doubt  if  there 
be  one  dram-seller  in  ten,  between  whom  and  his 
wife  there  exists  a good  understanding — to  say 
nothing  of  genuine  affection.  And,  in  the  excep- 
tional cases,  it  will  generally  be  found  that  the  wife 
is  as  mercenary,  or  careless  of  the  public  good,  as 
her  husband.  I have  known  some  women  to  set 
up  grog-shops ; but  they  were  women  of  bad  prin- 
ciples and  worse  hearts.  I remember  one  case., 
where  a woman,  with  a sober,  church-going  hus- 
band, opened  a dram-shop.  The  husband  opposed, 
remonstrated,  begged,  threatened — but  all  to  no 
purpose.  The  wife,  by  working  for  the  clothing 
stores,  had  earned  and  saved  about  three  hundred 
dollars.  The  love  of  money,  in  the  slow  process 
of  accumulation,  had  been  awakened ; and,  in  min- 
istering to  the  depraved  appetites  of  men  who 
loved  drink  and  neglected  their  families,  she  saw  a 
quicker  way  of  acquiring  the  gold  she  coveted. 
And  so  the  dram-shop  was  opened.  And  what 
was  the  result?  The  husband  quit  going  to  church. 
He  had  no  heart  for  that ; for,  even  on  the  Sabbath 


TEN  NIGHTS  IN  A BAR-ROOM. 


46 

day,  the  fiery  stream  was  stayed  not  in  his  house. 
Next  he  began  to  tipple.  Soon,  alas!  the  subtle 
poison  so  pervaded  his  system  that  morbid  desire 
came;  and  then  he  moved  along  quick-footed  in 
the  way  to  ruin.  In  less  than  three  years,  I think, 
from  the  time  the  grog-shop  was  opened  by  his 
wife,  he  was  in  a drunkard’s  grave.  A year  or  two 
more,  and  the  pit  that  was  digged  for  others  by 
the  hands  of  the  wife,  she  fell  into  herself.  Ever 
breathing  an  atmosphere  poisoned  by  the  fumes 
of  liquor,  the  love  of  tasting  it  was  gradually 
formed,  and  she  too,  in  the  end,  became  a slave  to 
the  Demon  of  Drink.  She  died,  at  last,  poor  as  a 
beggar  in  the  street.  Ah!  this  liquor-selling  is  the 
way  to  ruin;  and  they  who  open  the  gates,  as  well 
as  those  who  enter  the  downward  path,  alike  go 
to  destruction.  But  this  is  digressing. 

After  Joe  Morgan  and  his  wife  left  the  “ Sickle 
and  Sheaf/'  with  that  gentle  child,  who,  as  I after- 
• ward  learned,  had  not,  for  a year  or  mov  e laid  her 
little  head  to  sleep  until  her  father  retui  led  home 
— and  who,  if  he  stayed  out  beyond  a certain  hour 
would  go  for  him,  and  lead  him  back,  a \£ry  angel 
of  love  and  patience — I re-entered  the  V^ar-room, 
to  see  how  life  was  passing  there.  Not  une  of  all 
I had  left  in  the  room  remained.  The  incident 
which  had  occurred  was  of  so  painful  a na  ure,  that 
no  further  unalloyed  pleasure  was  to  be  \ ad  there 
during  the  evening,  and  so  each  had  ret  red.  In 
his  little  kingdom  the  landlord  sat  alone,  his  head 
resting  on  his  hand,  and  his  face  shaded  /rom  the 
light.  The  whole  aspect  of  the  man  wa^  that  of 
one  in  self-humiliation.  As  I entered  he  raised 
his  head,  and  turned  his  face  toward  me.  Its  ex- 
pression was  painful. 

“ Rather  an  unfortunate  affair,”  said  he.  “ I’m 
angry  with  myself,  and  sorry  for  the  poor  child. 
But  she'd  no  business  here.  As  for  Joe  Morgan, 


NIGHT  THE  SECOND . 


47 

it  would  take  a saint  to  bear  his  tongue  when  once 
set  a-going  by  liquor.  I wish  he'd  stay  away  from 
the  house.  Nobody  wants  his  company.  Oh, 
dear!  ” 

The  ejaculation,  or  rather  groan,  that  closed  the 
sentence  showed  how  little  Slade  was  satisfied  with 
himself,  notwithstanding  this  feeble  effort  at  self- 
justification. 

“ His  thirst  for  liquor  draws  him  hither,"  I re- 
marked. “ The  attraction  of  your  bar  to  his  appe- 
tite is  like  that  of  the  magnet  to  the  needle.  He 
cannot  stay  away." 

“ He  must  stay  away!  " exclaimed  the  landlord, 
with  some  vehemence  of  tone,  striking  his  fist 
upon  the  table  by  which  he  sat.  “ He  must  stay 
away!  There  is  scarcely  an  evening  that  he  does 
not  ruffle  my  temper,  and  mar  good  feelings  in  all 
the  company.  Just  see  what  he  provoked  me  to 
do  this  evening.  I might  have  killed  the  child.  It 
makes  my  blood  run  cold  to  think  of  it!  Yes,  sir — 
he  must  stay  away.  If  no  better  can  be  done,  I'll 
hire  a man  to  stand  at  the  door  and  keep  him 
out." 

“ He  never  troubled  you  at  the  mill,"  said  I. 
“ No  man  was  required  at  the  mill  door?'  ’ 

“ No  ! " and  the  landlord  gave  emphasis  to  the 
word  by  an  oath,  ejaculated  with  a heartiness  that 
almost  startled  me.  I had  not  heard  him  swear 
before.  “No;  the  great  trouble  was  to  get  him 
and  keep  him  there,  the  good-for-nothing,  idle 
fellow!  " 

“ I'm  afraid,"  I ventured  to  suggest,  “ that 
things  don't  go  on  quite  so  smoothly  here  as 
they  did  at  the  mill.  Your  customers  are  of  a 
different  class." 

“ I don't  know  about  that;  why  not?  " He  did 
not  just  relish  my  remark. 

“ Between  quiet,  thrifty,  substantial  farmers, 


48  TEN  nights  in  a bar-room . 

and  drinking  bar-room  loungers,  are  many  de- 
grees of  comparison.” 

“Excuse  me,  sir!”  Simon  Slade  elevated  his 
person.  “ The  men  who  visit  my  bar-room,  as  a 
general  thing,  are  quite  as  respectable,  moral,  and 
substantial  as  any  who  came  to  the  mill — and  I 
believe  more  so.  The  first  people  in  the  place,  sir, 
are  to  be  found  here.  Judge  Lyman  and  Judge 
Hammond;  Lawyer  Wilks  and  Doctor  Maynard; 
Mr.  Grand  and  Mr.  Lee;  and  dozens  of  others — 
al!  our  first  people.  No,  sir;  you  musn’t  judge  all 
by  vagabonds  like  Joe  Morgan.” 

There  was  a testy  spirit  manifested  that  I did 
not  care  to  provoke.  I could  have  met  his  asser- 
tion with  facts  and  inferences  of  a character  to 
startle  any  one  occupying  his  position,  who  was 
in  a calm,  reflective  state;  but  to  argue  with  him 
then  would  have  been  worse  than  idle;  and  so  I 
let  him  talk  on  until  the  excitement  occasioned  by 
my  words  died  out  for  want  of  new  fuel. 


NIGHT  THE  THIRD . 


49 


NIGHT  THE  THIRD. 

JOE  MORGAN’S  CHILD. 

“ I don’t  see  anything  of  your  very  particular 
friend,  Joe  Morgan,  this  evening,”  said  Harvey 
Green,  leaning  on  the  bar  and  speaking  to  Slade. 
It  was  the  night  succeeding  that  on  which  the 
painful  and  exciting  scene  with  the  child  had  oc- 
curred. 

“ No,”  was  answered — and  to  the  word  was 
added  a profane  imprecation.  “No;  and  if  he’ll 

just  keep  away  from  here,  he  may  go  to on 

a hard-trotting  horse  and  a porcupine  saddle  as 
fast  as  he  pleases.  He’s  tried  my  patience  beyond 
endurance,  and  my  mind  is  made  up,  that  he  gets 
no  more  drams  at  this  bar.  I’ve  borne  his  vile 
tongue  and  seen  my  company  annoyed  by  him 
just  as  long  as  I mean  to  stand  it.  Last  night  de- 
cided me.  Suppose  I’d  killed  that  child?” 

“ You’d  have  had  trouble  then,  and  no  mis- 
take.” 

“Wouldn’t  I?  Blast  her  little  picture!  What 
business  has  she  creeping  in  here  every  night?  ” 

“ She  must  have  a nice  kind  of  a mother,”  re- 
marked Green,  with  a cold  sneer. 

“ I don’t  know  what  she  is  now,”  said  Slade,  a 
slight  touch  of  feeling  in  his  voice — “ heartbroken, 
I suppose.  I couldn’t  look  at  her  last  night;  it 
made  me  sick.  But  there  was  a time  when  Fanny 
Morgan  was  the  loveliest  and  best  woman  in 
Cedarville.  I’ll  say  that  for  her.  Oh,  dear!  What 
a life  her  miserable  husband  has  caused  her  to 
lead.” 

“ Better  that  he  were  dead  and  out  of  the  way.” 


*0  TEN  nights  in  a bar-room. 

“ Better  a thousand  times,”  answered  Slade.  “ If 
he’d  only  fall  down  some  night  and  break  his  neck 
it  would  be  a blessing  to  his  family.” 

“ And  to  you  in  particular,”  laughed  Green. 

“ You  may  be  sure  it  wouldn’t  cost  me  a large 
sum  for  mourning,”  was  the  unfeeling  response. 


Let  us  leave  the  bar-room  of  the  “ Sickle  and 
Sheaf,”  and  its  cold-hearted  inmates,  and  look  in 
upon  the  family  of  Joe  Morgan,  and  see  how  it  is 
in  the  home  of  the  poor  inebriate.  We  will  pass 
by  a quick  transition. 

“Joe!”  The  thin  white  hand  of  Mrs.  Morgan 
clasps  the  arm  of  her  husband,  who  has  arisen  up 
suddenly,  and  now  stands  by  the  partly  opened 
door.  “ Don’t  go  out  to-night,  Joe.  Please,  don’t 
go  out.” 

“ Father!  ” a feeble  voice  calls  from  the  corner 
of  an  old  settee,  where  little  Mary  lies  with  her 
head  bandaged. 

“ Well,  I won’t,  then!  ” is  replied — not  angrily, 
nor  even  fretfully — but  in  a kind  voice. 

“ Come  and  sit  by  me,  father.”  How  tender, 
yet  how  full  of  concern,  is  that  low,  sweet  voice. 
“ Come,  won’t  you?  ” 

" Yes,  dear.” 

“ Now  hold  my  hand,  father.” 

Joe  takes  the  hand  of  little  Mary,  that  instantly 
tightens  upon  his. 

“You  won’t  go  away  and  leave  me  to-night, 
will  you,  father?  Say  you  won’t.” 

“ How  very  hot  your  hand  is,  dear.  Does  your 
head  ache?  ” 

“ A little;  but  it  will  soon  feel  better.” 

Up  into  the  swollen  and  disfigured  face  of  the 
fallen  father,  the  large,  earnest  blue  eyes  of  the 
child  are  raised.  She  does  not  see  the  marred  line- 


NIGHT  THE  THIRD.  ? 

aments;  but  only  the  beloved  countenance  of  her 
parent. 

“ Dear  father!  " 

“What,  love?" 

“ I wish  you'd  promise  me  something." 

“ What,  dear?" 

“ Will  you  promise?  " 

“ I can't  say  until  I hear  your  request.  If  I can 
promise,  I will." 

“ Oh!  you  can  promise — you  can,  father!  " 

How  the  large  blue  eyes  dance  and  sparkle! 

“ What  is  it,  love?  " 

“ That  you’ll  never  go  into  Simon  Slade's  bar 
any  more." 

The  child  raises  herself,  evidently  with  a pain- 
ful effort;  and  leans  nearer  to  her  father. 

Joe  shakes  his  head,  and  poor  Mary  drops  back 
upon  her  pillow  with  a sigh.  Her  lids  fall,  and 
the  long  lashes  lie  strongly  relieved  on  her  color- 
less cheeks. 

“ I won't  go  there  to-night,  dear.  So  let  your 
heart  be  at  rest." 

Mary's  lids  unclose,  and  two  round  drops,  re- 
leased from  their  clasp,  glide  slowly  over  her  face. 

“ Thank  you,  father — thank  you.  Mother  will 
be  so  glad." 

The  eyes  closed  again ; and  the  father  moved 
uneasily.  His  heart  is  touched.  There  is  a strug- 
gle within  him.  It  is  on  his  lips  to  say  that  he  will 
never  drink  at  the  “ Sickle  and  Sheaf " again;  but 
resolution  just  lacks  the  force  of  utterance. 

“ Father!  " 

“ Well,  dear?  " 

“ I don't  think  I'll  be  well  enough  to  go  out  in 
two  or  three  days.  You  know  the  doctor  said 
that  I would  have  to  keep  very  still,  for  I had  a 
great  deal  of  fever." 

“ Yes,  poor  child." 


52  TEN  nights  in  a bar-room. 

“ Now,  won’t  you  promise  me  one  thing?  ” 

“ What  is  it,  dear?  ” 

“ Not  to  go  out  in  the  evening  until  I get  well.” 
Joe  Morgan  hesitated. 

“ Just  promise  me  that,  father.  It  won’t  be  long; 
I shall  be  up  again  in  a little  while.” 

How  well  the  father  knows  what  is  in  the  heart 
of  his  child.  Her  fears  are  all  for  him.  Who  is 
to  go  after  her  poor  father,  and  lead  him  home 
when  the  darkness  of  inebriety  is  on  his  spirit, 
and  external  perception  so  dulled  that  not  skill 
enough  remains  to  shun  the  harm  that  lies  in  his 
path? 

v‘  Do  promise  just  that,  father,  dear.” 

He  cannot  resist  the  pleading  voice  and  look. 

“ I promise  it,  Mary;  so  shut  your  eyes  now  and 
go  to  sleep.  I’m  afraid  this  fever  will  increase.” 

“ Oh!  I’m  so  glad — so  glad!  ” 

Mary  does  not  clasp  her  hands,  nor  show 
strong  external  signs  of  pleasure;  but  how  full  of 
a pure,  unselfish  joy  is  that  low-murmured  ejac- 
ulation, spoken  in  the  depths  of  her  spirit,  as  well 
as  syllabled  by  her  tongue! 

Mrs.  Morgan  has  been  no  unconcerned  wit- 
ness of  all  this;  but  knowing  the  child’s  influence 
over  her  father,  she  has  not  ventured  a word. 
More  was  to  be  gained,  she  was  sure,  by  silence 
on  her  part;  and  so  she  has  kept  silent.  Now  she 
comes  nearer  to  them,  and  says,  as  she  lets  a 
hand  rest  on  the  shoulder  of  her  husband : 

“ You  feel  better  for  that  promise  already;  I 
know  you  do.” 

He  looks  up  to  her,  and  smiles  faintly.  Hye  does 
feel  better,  but  is  hardly  willing  to  acknowledge  it. 

Soon  after  Mary  is  sleeping.  It  does  not  escape 
the  observation  of  Mrs.  Morgan  that  her  husband 
grows  restless;  for  he  gets  ifp  suddenly,  every 
now  and  then,  and  walks  quickly  across  the  room, 


NIGHT  THE  THIRD. 


53 

as  if  in  search  of  something.  Then  sits  down,  list- 
lessly— sighs — stretches  himself,  and  says,  “ Oh, 
dear!”  What  shall  she  do  for  him?  How  is  the 
want  of  his  accustomed  evening  stimulus  to  be 
met?  She  thinks,  and  questions,  and  grieves  in- 
wardly. Poor  Joe  Morgan!  His  wife  understands 
his  case,  and  pities  him  from  her  heart.  But  what 
can  she  do?  Go  out  and  get  him  something  to 
drink?  “ Oh,  no!  no!  no!  never!  ” She  answered 
the  thought  audibly  almost,  in  the  excitement  of 
her  feelings.  An  hour  has  passed — Joe’s  restless- 
ness has  increased  instead  of  diminishing.  What 
is  to  be  done?  Now  Mrs.  Morgan  has  left  the 
room.  She  has  resolved  upon  something,  for  the 
case  must  be  met.  Ah!  here  she  comes,  after  an 
absence  of  five  minutes,  bearing  in  her  hand  a 
cup  of  strong  coffee. 

“ It  was  kind  and  thoughtful  in  you,  Fanny,” 
says  Morgan,  as  writh  a gratified  look  he  takes 
the  cup.  But  his  hand  trembles  and  he  spills  a 
portion  of  the  contents  as  he  tries  to  raise  it  to 
his  lips.  How  dreadfully  his  nerves  are  shat- 
tered! Unnatural  stimulants  have  been  applied  so 
long,  that  all  true  vitality  seems  lost. 

And  now  the  hand  of  his  wife  is  holding  the 
cup  to  his  lips,  and  he  drinks  eagerly. 

“ This  is  dreadful — dreadful!  Where  will  it  end? 
What  is  to  be  done?” 

Fanny  suppresses  a sob,  as  she  thus  gives  vent 
to  her  troubled  feelings.  Twice,  already,  has  her 
husband  been  seized  with  the  drunkard’s  mad- 
ness; and,  in  the  nervous  prostration  consequent 
upon  even  a brief  withdrawal  of  his  usual  strong 
stimulants,  she  sees  the  fearful  precursor  of  an- 
other attack  of  this  dreadful  and  dangerous  mal- 
• ady.  In  the  hope  of  supplying  the  needed  tone 
she  has  given  him  strong  coffee;  and  this,  for  the 
time,  produces  the  effect  desired.  The  restless- 


54  TEN  nights  in  a bar-room. 

ness  is  allayed,  and  a quiet  state  of  body  and  mind 
succeeds.  It  needs  but  a suggestion  to  induce 
him  to  retire  for  the  night.  After  being  a few  min- 
utes in  bed,  sleep  steals  over  him,  and  his  heavy 
breathing  tells  that  he  is  in  the  world  of  dreams. 

And  now  there  comes  a tap  at  the  door. 

“ Come  in,”  is  answered. 

The  latch  is  lifted,  the  door  swings  open,  and  a 
woman  enters. 

“ Mrs.  Slade!  ” The  name  is  uttered  in  a tone 
of  surprise. 

“ Fanny,  how  are  you  this  evening?  ” Kindly, 
yet  half  sadly,  the  words  are  said. 

“ Tolerable,  I thank  you.,r 

The  hands  of  the  two  women  are  clasped,  and 
for  a few  moments  they  gaze  into  each  other’s 
face.  What  a world  of  tender  commiseration  is  in 
that  of  Mrs.  Slade! 

“ How  is  little  Mary  to-night?” 

“ Not  so  well,  I’m  afraid.  She  has  a good  deal 
of  fever.” 

“ Indeed!  Oh,  I’m  sorry!  Poor  child!  what  a 
dreadful  thing  it  was!  Oh,  Fanny,  you  don’t  know 
how  it  has  troubled  me.  I’ve  been  intending  to 
come  around  all  day  to  see  how  she  was,  but 
couldn’t  get  off  until  now.” 

“ It  came  near  killing  her,”  said  Mrs.  Morgan. 

“ It’s  in  God’s  mercy  she  escaped.  The  thought 
of  it  curdles  the  very  blood  in  my  veins.  Poor 
child!  is  this  her  on  the  settee?” 

“ Yes.” 

Mrs.  Slade  takes  a chair,  and  sitting  by  the 
sleeping  child,  gazes  long  upon  her  pale  sweet 
face.  Now  the  lips  of  Mary  part — words  are  mur- 
mured— what  is  she  saying? 

No,  no,  mother;  I can’t  go  to  bed  yet.  Father 
isn’t  home.  And  it’s  so  dark.  There’s  no  one  to 
lead  him  over  the  bridge.  I’m  not  afraid.  Don’t — 


NIGHT  THE  THIRD.  55 

don  t cry  so,  mother — I'm  not  afraid!  Nothing 
will  hurt  me.” 

The  child's  face  flushes.  She  moans,  and 
throws  her  arms  about  uneasily.  Hark  again. 

“ I wish  Mr.  Slade  wouldn't  look  so  cross  at 
me.  He  never  did  when  I went  to  the  mill.  He 
doesn't  take  me  on  his  knee  now,  and  stroke  my 
hair.  Oh,  dear!  I wish  father  wouldn't  go  there 
any  more.  Don't!  don't,  Mr.  Slade.  Oh!  oh!  ” — 
the  ejaculation  prolonged  into  a frightened  cry, 
“ My  head!  my  head!  ” 

A few  choking  sobs  are  followed  by  low  moans ; 
and  then  the  child  breathes  easily  again.  But  the 
flush  does  not  leave  her  cheek;  and  when  Mrs. 
Slade,  from  whose  eyes  the  tears  come  forth  drop 
by  drop,  and  roll  down  her  face,  touches  it  lightly, 
she  finds  it  hot  with  fever. 

“ Has  the  doctor  seen  her  to-day,  Fanny?  ” 

“ No,  ma'am.” 

“ He  should  see  her  at  once.  I will  go  for 
him!  ” and  Mrs.  Slade  starts  up  and  goes  quickly 
from  the  room.  In  a little  while  she  returns  with 
Doctor  Green,  who  sits  down  and  looks  at  the 
child  for  some  moments  with  a sober,  thoughtful 
face.  Then  he  lays  his  fingers  on  her  pulse  and 
times  its  beat  by  his  watch — shakes  his  head,  and 
looks  graver  still. 

“ How  long  has  she  had  fever?  ” he  asks. 

“ All  day.” 

“ You  should  have  sent  for  me  earlier.” 

“ Oh,  doctor!  She's  not  dangerous,  I hope?” 
Mrs.  Morgan  looks  frightened. 

“ She's  a sick  child,  madam.” 

“ You've  promised,  father.” — The  dreamer  is 
speaking  again. — “ I'm  not  well  enough  yet.  Oh, 
don't  go,  father;  don't!  There!  He's  gone!  Well, 
well!  I'll  try  and  walk  there — I can  sit  down  and 


56  TEN  NIGHTS  IN  A BAR-ROOM. 

rest  by  the  way.  Oh,  dear!  How  tired  I am! 
Father!  Father !” 

The  child  starts  up  and  looks  about  her  wildly. 

“ Oh,  mother,  is  it  you?''  And  she  sinks  back 
upon  her  pillow,  looking  now  inquiringly  from 
face  to  face. 

“ Father — where  is  father?  ” she  asks. 

“ Asleep,  dear.” 

“ Oh!  Is  he?  I’m  glad.” 

Her  eyes  close  wearily. 

“Do  you  feel  any  pain,  Mary?”  inquired  the 
doctor. 

“ Yes,  sir — in  my  head.  It  aches  and  beats  so.” 

The  cry  of  “ Father  ” has  reached  the  ears  of 
Morgan,  who  is  sleeping  in  the  next  room,  and 
roused  him  into  consciousness.  He  knows  the 
doctor’s  voice.  Why  is  he  here  at  this  late  hour? 
“ Do  you  feel  any  pain,  Mary?  ” The  question  he 
hears  distinctly,  and  the  faintly  uttered  reply  also. 
He  is  sober  enough  to  have  all  his  fears  instantly 
excited.  There  is  nothing  in  the  world  that  he 
loves  as  he  loves  that  child.  And  so  he  gets  up 
and  dresses  himself  as  quickly  as  possible;  the 
stimulus  of  anxiety  giving  tension  to  his  relaxed 
nerves. 

“ Oh,  father!  ” The  quick  ears  of  Mary  detect 
his  entrance  first,  and  a pleasant  smile  welcomes 
him. 

“ Is  she  very  sick,  doctor?  ” he  asks,  in  a voice 
full  of  anxiety. 

“She’s  a sick  child,  sir;  you  should  have  sent 
for  me  earlier.”  The  doctor  speaks  rather  sternly, 
and  with  a purpose  to  rebuke. 

The  reply  stirs  Morgan,  and  he  seems  to  cower 
half-timidly  under  the  words,  as  if  they  were 
blows.  Mary  has  already  grasped  her  father’s 
hand,  and  holds  on  to  it  tightly. 

After  examining  the  case  a little  more  closely, 


NIGHT  THE  THIRD.  57 

the  doctor  prepares  some  medicine,  and,  prom- 
ising to  call  early  in  the  morning,  goes  away. 
Mrs.  Slade  follows  soon  after;  but,  in  parting  with 
Mrs.  Morgan,  leaves  something  in  her  hand, 
which  to  the  surprise  of  the  latter,  proves  to  be  a 
ten-dollar  bill.  The  tears  start  to  her  eyes;  and 
she  conceals  the  money  in  her  bosom — murmur- 
ing a fervent  “ God  bless  her!  ” 

A simple  act  of  restitution  is  this  on  the  part 
of  Mrs.  Slade,  prompted  as  well  by  humanity  as 
a sense  of  justice.  With  one  hand  her  husband 
has  taken  the  bread  from  the  family  of  his  old 
friend,  and  thus  with  the  other  she  restores  it. 

And  now  Morgan  and  his  wife  are  alone  with 
their  sick  child.  Higher  the  fever  rises,  and  par- 
tial delirium  seizes  upon  her  over-excited  brain. 
She  talks  for  a time  almost  incessantly.  All  her 
trouble  is  about  her  father;  and  she  is  constantly 
referring  to  his  promise  not  to  go  out  in  the  even- 
ing until  she  gets  well.  How  tenderly  and  touch- 
ingly she  appeals  to  him;  now  looking  up  into 
his  face  in  partial  recognition,  and  now  calling* 
anxiously  after  him,  as  if  he  had  left  her  and  was 
going  away. 

“You’ll  not  forget  your  promise,  will  you, 
father?  ” she  says,  speaking  so  calmly,  that  he 
thinks  her  mind  has  ceased  to>  wander. 

“ No,  dear;  I will  not  forget  it,”  he  answers, 
smoothing  her  hair  gently  with  his  hand. 

“ You’ll  not  go  out  in  the  evening  again,  until 
I get  well?” 

“ No,  dear.” 

“ Father!  ” 

“What,  love?” 

“Stoop  down  closer;  I don’t  want  mother  to 
hear;  it  will  make  her  feel  so  bad.” 

The  father  bends  his  ear  close  to  the  lips  of 


TEN  NIGHTS  IN  A BAR-liOOM . 


58 

Mary.  How  he  starts  and  shudders!  What  has 
she  said? — only  these  brief  words: 

“ I shall  not  get  well,  father;  I’m  going  to  die.” 

The  groans,  impossible  to  repress,  that  issued 
through  the  lips  of  Joe  Morgan,  startled  the  ears 
of  his  wife,  and  she  came  quickly  to  the  bed-side. 

“ What  is  it?  What  is  the  matter,  Joe?”  she 
inquired,  with  a look  of  anxiety. 

“ Hush,  father.  Don’t  tell  her.  I only  said  it 
to  you.”  And  Mary  put  a finger  on  her  lips,  and 
looked  mysterious.  “ There,  mother — you  go 
away;  you’ve  got  trouble  enough,  any  how.  Don’t 
tell  her,  father.” 

But  the  words,  which  came  to  him  like  a proph- 
ecy, awoke  such  pangs  of  fear  and  remorse  in 
the  heart  of  Joe  Morgan,  that  it  was  impossible 
for  him  to  repress  the  signs  of  pain.  For  some 
moments  he  gazed  at  his  wife— then  stooping  for- 
ward, suddenly,  he  buried  his  face  in  the  bed- 
clothes, and  sobbed  bitterly. 

A suggestion  of  the  truth  now  flashed  through 
the  mind  of  Mrs.  Morgan,  sending  a thrill  of  pain 
along  every  nerve.  Ere  she  had  time  to  recover 
herself,  the  low,  sweet  voice  of  Mary  broke  upon 
the  hushed  air  of  the  room,  and  she  sung: 

“ Jesus  can  make  a dying  bed 
Feel  soft  as  downy  pillows  are, 

While  on  His  breast  I lean  my  head, 

And  breathe  my  life  out,  sweetly,  there." 

It  was  impossible  for  Mrs.  Morgan  longer  to 
repress  her  feelings.  As  the  softly  breathed  strain 
died  away,  her  sobs  broke  forth,  and  for  a time 
she  wept  violently. 

“ There,”  said  the  child, — “ I didn’t  mean  to  tell 
you.  I only  told  father,  because — because  he 
promised  not  to  go  to  the  tavern  any  more  until 
I got  well;  and  I’m  not  going  to  get  well.  So,  you 
see,  mother,  he’ll  never  go  again — never — never — 


NIGHT  THE  THIRD. 


59 

never.  Oh,  dear!  how  my  head  pains.  Mr.  Slade 
threw  it  so  hard.  But  it  didn’t  strike  father;  and 
I’m  so  glad.  How  it  would  have  hurt  him — poor 
father!  But  he’ll  never  go  there  any  more;  and 
that  will  be  so  good,  won’t  it,  mother?  ” 

A light  broke  over  her  face;  but  seeing  that  her 
mother  still  wept,  she  said: 

“ Don’t  cry.  Maybe  I’ll  be  better.” 

And  then  her  eyes  closed  heavily,  and  she  slept 
again. 

“ Joe,”  said  Mrs.  Morgan,  after  she  had  in  a 
measure  recovered  herself — she  spoke  firmly — 
“ Joe,  did  you  hear  what  she  said?” 

Morgan  only  answered  with  a groan. 

“ Her  mind  wanders;  and  yet  she  may  have 
spoken  only  the  truth.” 

He  groaned  again. 

“■If  she  should  die,  Joe ” 

“Don’t;  oh,  don’t  talk  so,  Fanny.  She’s  not 
going  to  die.  It’s  only  because  she’s  a little  light- 
headed.” 

“ Why  is  she  light-headed,  Joe?  ” 

“ It’s  the  fever — only  the  fever,  Fanny.” 

- “ It  was  the  blow,  and  the  wound  on  her  head, 
that  caused  the  fever.  How  do  we  know  the  ex- 
tent of  injury  on  the  brain?  Doctor  Green  looked 
very  serious.  I’m  afraid,  husband,  that  the  worst 
is  before  us.  I’ve  borne  and  suffered  a great  deal 
— only  God  knows  how  much — I pray  that  I may 
have  strength  to  bear  this  trial  also.  Dear  child! 
She  is  better  fitted  for  heaven  than  for  earth,  and 
it  may  be  that  God  is  about  to  take  her  to  Him- 
self. She’s  been  a great  comfort  to  me — and  to 
you,  Joe,  more  like.,  a guardian  angel  than  a child.” 
Mrs.  Morgan  had  tried  to  speak  very  firmly; 
but  as  sentence  followed  sentence,  her  voice  lost 
more  and  more  of  its  even  tone.  With  the  closing 
words  all  self-control  vanished;  and  she  wept  bit- 


TEN  NIQRTS  IN  A BAR-ROOM. 


60 

terly.  What  could  her  feeble,  erring  husband  do, 
but  weep  with  her? 

“ Joe,” — Mrs.  Morgan  aroused  herself  as  quick- 
ly as  possible,  for  she  had  that  to  say  which  she 
feared  she  might  not  have  the  heart  to  utter — 
“ Joe,  if  Mary  dies,  you  cannot  forget  the  cause 
of  her  death.” 

“ Oh,  Fanny!  Fanny!  ” 

“ Nor  the  hand  that  struck  the  cruel  blow.” 

“ Forget  it?  Never!  And  if  I forgive  Simon 
Slade ” 

“ Nor  the  place  where  the  blow  was  dealt,”  said 
Mrs.  Morgan,  interrupting  him. 

“ Poor — poor  child!”  moaned  the  conscience- 
stricken  man. 

“ Nor  your  promise,  Joe — nor  your  promise 
given  to  our  dying  child.” 

“Father!  Father!  Dear  father!”  Mary’s  eyes 
suddenly  unclosed,  as  she  called  her  father  eag- 
erly. 

“Here  I am,  love.  What  is  it?”  And  Joe 
Morgan  pressed  up  to  the  bed-side. 

“ Oh!  it’s  you,  father!  I dreamed  that  you  had 
gone  out,  and — and — but  you  won’t,  will  you, 
dear  father?  ” 

“ No,  love— no.” 

“ Never  any  more  until  I get  well?” 

“ I must  go  out  to  work,  you  know,  Mary.” 

“ At  night,  father.  That’s  what  I mean.  You 
won’t,  will  you?  ” 

“ No,  dear,  no.” 

A soft  smile  trembled  over  the  child’s  face;  her 
eyelids  drooped  wearily,  and  she  fell  off  into  slum- 
ber again.  She  seemed  not  so  restless  as  before— 
did  not  moan,  nor  throw  herself  about  in  her  sleep. 

“ She’s  better,  I think,”  said  Morgan,  as  he 
bent  over  her,  and  listened  to  her  softer  breathing. 
“It  seems  so,”  replied  his  wife.  “And  now, 


NIGHT  THE  THIRD. 


61 

Joe,  you  must  go  to  bed  again.  I will  lie  down 
here  with  Mary,  and  be  ready  to  do  any  thing  for 
her  that  she  may  want.” 

“ I don't  feel  sleepy.  I'm  sure  I couldn’t  close 
my  eyes.  So  let  me  sit  up  with  Mary.  You  are 
tired  and  worn  out.” 

Mrs.  Morgan  looked  earnestly  into  her  hus- 
band's face.  His  eyes  were  unusually  bright,  and 
she  noticed  a slight  nervous  restlessness  about 
his  lips.  She  laid  one  of  her  hands  on  his,  and 
perceived  a slight  tremor. 

“ You  must  go  to  bed,”  she  spoke  firmly.  “ I 
shall  not  let  you  sit  up  with  Mary.  So  go  at 
once.”  And  she  drew  him  almost  by  force  into 
the  next  room. 

“ It's  no  use,  Fanny.  There's  not  a wink  of 
sleep  in  my  eyes.  I shall  lie  awake  anyhow.  So 
do  you  get  a little  rest.” 

Even  as  he  spoke  there  were  nervous  twitch- 
ings  of  his  arms  and  shoulders ; and  as  he  entered 
the  chamber,  impelled  by  his  wife,  he  stopped 
suddenly,  and  said: 

“ What  is  that?  ” 

“ Where?  ” asked  Mrs.  Morgan. 

“ Oh,  it's  nothing — I see.  Only  one  of  imy  old 
boots.  I thought  it  a great  black  cat.” 

Oh!  what  a shudder  of  despair  seized  upon  the 
heart  of  the  wretched  wife.  Too  well  she  knew 
the  fearful  signs  of  that  terrible  madness  from 
which,  twice  before,  he  had  suffered.  She  could 
have  looked  on  calmly  and  seen  him  die — but, 
''Not  this — not  this!  Oh,  Father  in  heaven!” 
she  murmured,  with  such  a heart-sinking  that  it 
seemed  as  if  life  itself  would  go  out. 

“ Get  into  bed,  Joe;  get  into  bed  as  quickly  as 
possible.” 

Morgan  was  now  passive  in  the  hands  of  his 
wife,  and  obeyed  her  almost  like  a child.  He  had 


62  TEN  nights  in  a bar-room. 

turned  down  the  bed-clothes,  and  was  about  get- 
ting in,  when  he  started  back,  with  a look  of  dis- 
gust and  alarm. 

“ There’s  nothing  there,  Joe.  What’s  the  mat- 
ter with  you?  ” 

“ I’m  sure  I don’t  know,  Fanny,”  and  his  teeth 
rattled  together,  as  he  spoke.  “ I thought  there 
was  a preat  toad  under  the  clothes.” 

“ How  foolish  you  are!  ” — yet  tears  were  blind- 
ing her  eyes  as  she  said  this.  “ It’s  only  fancy. 
Get  into  bed  and  shut  your  eyes.  I’ll  make  you 
another  cup  of  strong  coffee.  Perhaps  that  will 
do  you  good.  You’re  only  a little  nervous.  Mary’s 
sickness  has  disturbed  you.” 

Joe  looked  cautiously  under  the  bedclothes,  as 
he  lifted  them  up  still  farther,  and  peered  beneath. 

“ You  know  there’s  nothing  in  your  bed;  see!  ” 

And  Mrs.  Morgan  threw,  with  a single  jerk,  all 
the  clothes  upon  the  floor. 

“ There  now!  look  for  yourself.  Now  shut  your 
eyes,”  she  continued,  as  she  spread  the  sheet  and 
quilt  over  him,  after  his  head  was  on  the  pillow. 
“ Shut  them  tight  and  keep  them  so  until  I boil 
the  water  and  make  a cup  of  coffee.  You  know 
as  well  as  I do  that  it’s  nothing  but  fancy.” 

Morgan  closed  his  * eyes  firmly,  and  drew  the 
clothes  over  his  head. 

“ I’ll  be  back  in  a very  few  minutes,”  said  his 
wife,  going  hurriedly  to  the  door.  Ere  leaving, 
however,  she  partly  turned  her  head  and  glanced 
back.  There  sat  her  husband,  upright  and  staring 
fearfully. 

“ Don’t,  Fanny!  don’t  go  away!”  he  cried,  in 
a frightened  voice. 

“Joe!  Joe!  why  will  you  be  so  foolish?  It’s 
nothing  but  imagination.  Now  do  lie  down  and 
shut  your  -eyes.  Keep  them  shut.  There,  now.” 


NIGHT  THE  THIRD . 63 

And  she  laid  a hand  over  his  eyes,  and  pressed 
it  down  tightly. 

“ I wish  Doctor  Green  was  here/'  said  the 
wretched  man.  " He  could  give  me  something/’ 

" Shall  I go  for  him?  ” 

"Go,  Fanny!  Run  over  right  quickly.” 

"•But  you  won’t  keep  in  bed.” 

"Yes,  I will.  There  now.”  And  he  drew  the 
clothes  over  his  face.  " There;  I’ll  lie  just  so  un- 
til you  come  back.  Now  run,  Fanny,  and  don’t 
stay  a minute.” 

Scarcely  stopping  to  think,  Mrs.  Morgan  went 
hurriedly  from  the  room,  and  drawing  an  old 
shawl  over  her  head,  started  with  swift  feet  for 
the  residence  of  Doctor  Green,  which  was  not 
very  far  away.  The  kind  doctor  understood,  at  a 
word,  the  sad  condition  of  her  husband,  and  prom- 
ised to  attend  him  immediately.  Back  she  flew 
at  even  a wilder  speed,  her  heart  throbbing  with 
vague  apprehension.  Oh!  what  a fearful  cry  was 
that  which  smote  her  ears  as  she  came  within  a 
few  paces  of  home.  She  knew  the  voice,  changed 
as  it  was  by  terror,  and  a shudder  almost  palsied 
her  heart.  At  a single  bound  she  cleared  the  in- 
tervening space,  and  in  the  next  moment  was  in 
the  room  where  she  had  left  her  husband.  But 
he  was  not  there!  With  suspended  breath,  and 
feet  that  scarcely  obeyed  her  will,  she  passed  into 
the  chamber  where  little  Mary  lay.  Not  here! 

"Joe!  husband!  ” she  called  in  a faint  voice. 

" Here  he  is,  mother.”  And  now  she  saw  that 
Joe  had  crept  into  the  bed  behind  the  sick  child, 
and  that  her  arm  was  drawn  tightly  around  his 
neck. 

" You  won’t  let  them  hurt  me,  will  you,  dear?  ” 
said  the  poor,  frightened  victim  of  a terrible 
mania. 

“ Nothing  will  hurt  you,  father,”  answered 


TEN  NIGHTS  IN  A BAR-ROOM. 


64 

Mary,  in  a voice  that  showed  her  mind  to  be  clear, 
and  fully  conscious  of  her  parent's  true  condition. 

She  had  seen  him  thus  before.  Ah!  what  an 
experience  for  a child! 

“ You’re  an  angel — my  good  angel,  Mary,”  he 
murmured,  in  a voice  yet  trembling  with  fear. 
“ Pray  for  me,  my  child.  Oh,  ask  your  Father 
in  heaven  to  save  me  from  these  dreadful  creat- 
ures. There  now!  ” he  cried,  rising  up  suddenly, 
and  looking  toward  the  door.  “ Keep  out!  Go 
away!  You  can’t  come  in  here.  This  is  Mary’s 
room;  and  she’s  an  angel.  Ah,  ha!  I knew  you 
wouldn’t  dare  come  in  here — 

‘ A single  saint  can  put  to  flight, 

Ten  thousand  blustering  sons  of  night,’ 

he  added  in  a half-wandering  way,  yet  with  an 
assured  voice,  as  he  laid  himself  back  upon  his 
pillow,  and  drew  the  clothes  over  his  head. 

“ Poor  father!”  sighed  the  child,  as  she  gath- 
eied  both  arms  about  his  neck.  “ I will  be  your 
good  angel.  Nothing  shall  hurt  you  here.” 

“ I knew  I would  be  safe  where  you  were,”  he 
whispered  back — “ I knew  it,  and  so  I came.  Kiss 
me,  love.” 

How  pure  and  fervent  was  the  kiss  laid  instant- 
ly upon  his  lips!  There  was  a power  in  it  to  re- 
mand the  evil  influences  that  were  surrounding 
and  pressing  in  upon  him  like  a flood.  All  was 
quiet  now,  and  Mrs.  Morgan  neither  by  word 
nor  movement  disturbed  the  solemn  stillness  that 
reigned  in  the  apartment.  In  a few  minutes  the 
deepened  breathing  of  her  husband  gave  a blessed 
intimation  that  he  was  sinking  into  sleep.  Oh, 
sleep!  sleep!  How  tearfully,  in  times  past,  had  she 
prayed  that  he  might  sleep ; and  yet  no  sleep  came 
for  hours  and  days — even  though  powerful  opiates 
were  given — until  exhausted  nature  yielded,  and 


NIGHT  THE  THIRD. 


65 

then  sleep  had  a long,  long  struggle  with  death. 
Now  the  sphere  of  his  loving,  innocent  child 
seemed  to  have  overcome,  at  least  for  the  time, 
the  evil  influences  that  were  getting  possession 
even  of  his  external  senses.  Yes,  yes,  he  was  sleep- 
ing! Oh,  what  a fervent  “ Thank  God!  ” went  up 
from  the  heart  of  his  stricken  wife. 

Soon  the  quick  ears  of  Mrs.  Morgan  detected 
the  doctor’s  approaching  footsteps,  and  she  met 
him  at  the  door  with  a finger  on  her  lips.  A whis- 
pered word  or  two  explained  the  better  aspect  of 
affairs,  and  the  doctor  said,  encouragingly: 

“ That’s  good,  if  he  will  only  sleep  on.” 

“ Do  you  think  he  will,  doctor?  ” was  asked, 
anxiously. 

“ He  may.  But  we  cannot  hope  too  strongly. 
It  would  be  something  very  unusual.” 

Both  passed  noiselessly  into  the  chamber.  Mor- 
gan still  slept,  and  by  his  deep  breathing  it  was 
plain  that  he  slept  soundly.  And  Mary,  too,  was 
sleeping,  her  face  now  laid  against  her  father’s, 
and  her  arms  still  about  his  neck.  The  sight 
touched  even  the  doctor’s  heart  and  moistened 
his  eyes.  For  nearly  half  an  hour  he  remained; 
and  then,  as  Morgan  continued  to  sieep,  he  left 
medicine  to  be  given  immediately,  and  went  home, 
promising  to  call  early  in  the  morning. 

It  is  now  past  midnight,  and  we  leave  the  lonely, 
sad-hearted  watcher  with  her  sick  ones. 


I was  sitting,  with  a newspaper  in  my  hand — 
not  reading,  but  musing — at  the  “ Sickle  and 
Sheaf,”  late  in  the  evening  marked  by  the  inci- 
dents just  detailed. 

“ Where’s  your  mother?  ” I heard  Simon  Slade 
inquire.  He  had  just  entered  an  adjoining  room. 


66  TEN  NIGHTS  IN  A BAR-ROOM . 

“ She’s  gone  out  somewhere,”  was  answered  by 
his  daughter  Flora. 

“ Where?” 

“ I don’t  know.” 

“ How  long  has  she  been  away?” 

“ More  than  an  hour.” 

“ And  you  don’t  know  where  she  went  to?  ” 

“ No,  sir.” 

Nothing  more  was  said,  but  I heard  the  land- 
lord’s heavy  feet  moving  backward  and  forward 
across  the  room  for  some  minutes. 

“ Why,  Ann!  where  have  you  been?  ” The  door 
of  the  next  room  had  opened  and  shut. 

“ Where  I wish  you  had  been  with  me,”  was 
answered  in  a very  firm  voice. 

“ Where?  ” 

“ To  Joe  Morgan’s.” 

“Humph!”  Only  this  ejaculation  met  my 
ears.  But  something  was  said  in  a low  voice,  to 
which  Mrs.  Slade  replied  with  some  warmth: 

“ If  you  don’t  have  his  child’s  blood  clinging 
for  life  to  your  garments,  you  may  be  thankful.” 
“What  do  you  mean?”  he  asked,  quickly. 

“ All  that  my  words  indicate.  Little  Mary  is 
very  ill!  ” 

“ Well,  what  of  it?  ” 

“ Much.  The  doctor  thinks  her  in  great  dan- 
ger. The  cut  on  her  head  has  thrown  her  into  a 
violent  fever,  and  she  is  delirious.  Oh,  Simon!  if 
you  had  heard  what  I heard  to-night.” 

“ What?  ” was  asked  in  a growling  tone. 

“ She  is  out  of  her  mind,  as  I said,  and  talks  a 
great  deal.  She  talked  about  you.” 

“ Of  me!  Well,  what  had  she  to  say?  ” 

“ She  said — so  pitifully — ‘ I wish  Mr.  Slade 
wouldn’t  look  so  cross  at  me.  He  never  did  when 
I went  to  the  mill.  He  doesn’t  take  me  on  his 


NIGHT  THE  THIRD. 


67 

knee  now  and  stroke  my  hair.  Oh,  dear!  ’ Poor 
child!  She  was  always  so  good.” 

“ Did  she  say  that?  ” Slade  seemed  touched. 

“ Yes,  and  a great  deal  more.  Once  she 
screamed  out,  4 Oh,  don’t!  don’t,  Mr.  Slade!  don’t! 
My  head ! my  head ! ’ It  made  my  very  heart  ache. 
I can  never  forget  her  pale,  frightened  face,  nor 
her  cry  of  fear.  Simon — if  she  should  die!  ” 

There  was  a long  silence. 

44  If  we  were  only  back  to  the  mill.”  It  was  Mrs. 
Slade’s  voice. 

4(  There,  now!  I don’t  want  to  hear  that  again,” 
quickly  spoke  out  the  landlord.  “ I made  a slave 
of  myself  long  enough.” 

44  You  had  at  least  a clear  conscience,”  his  wife 
answered. 

44  Do  hush,  will  you?”  Slade  was  now  angry. 
“ One  would  think,  by  the  way  you  talk  some- 
times, that  I had  broken  every  command  of  the 
Decalogue.” 

44  You  will  break  hearts  as  well  as  command- 
ments, if  you  keep  on  for  a few  years  as  you  have 
begun — and  ruin  souls  as  well  as  fortunes.” 

Mrs.  Slade  spoke  calmly,  but  with  marked  se- 
verity of  tone.  Her  husband  answered  with  an 
oath,  and  then  left  the  room,  banging  the  door 
after  him.  In  the  hush  that  followed  I retired  to 
my  chamber,  and  lay  for  an  hour  awake,  pondering 
on  all  I had  just  heard.  What  a revelation  was 
in  that  brief  passage  of  words  between  the  land- 
lord and  his  excited  companion! 


08 


TEN  NIGHTS  IN  A BAR-ROOM . 


NIGHT  THE  FOURTH. 

DEATH  OF  LITTLE  MARY  MORGAN. 

“ Where  are  you  going,  Ann?  ” It  was  the 
landlord’s  voice.  Time — a little  after  dark. 

“ I’m  going  over  to  see  Mrs.  Morgan,”  an- 
swered his  wife. 

“ What  for?” 

“ I wish  to  go,”  was  replied. 

“ Well,  / don’t  wish  you  to  go,”  said  Slade,  in 
a very  decided  way. 

“ I can’t  help  that,  Simon.  Mary,  I’m  told,  is 
dying,  and  Joe  is  in  a dreadful  way.  I’m  needed 
there — and  so  are  you,  as  to  that  matter.  There 
was  a time  when,  if  word  came  to  you  that  Mor- 
gan or  his  family  were  in  trouble ” 

“ Do  hush,  will  you!  ” exclaimed  the  landlord, 
angrily.  “ I won’t  be  preached  to  in  this  way  any 
longer.” 

“ Oh,  well;  then  don’t  interfere  with  my  move- 
ments, Simon;  that’s  all  I have  to  say.  I’m  needed 
over  there,  as  I just  said,  and  I’m  going.” 

There  were  considerable  odds  against  him,  and 
Slade,  perceiving  this,  turned  off,  muttering  some- 
thing that  his  wife  did  not  hear,  and  she  went  on 
her  way.  A hurried  walk  brought  her  to  the 
wretched  home  of  the  poor  drunkard,  whose  wife 
met  her  at  the  door. 

a How  is  Mary?”  was  the  visitor’s  earnest  in- 
quiry. 

Mrs.  Morgan  tried  to  answer  the  question;  but, 


NIGHT  THE  FOURTH . 69 

though  her  lips  moved,  no  sounds  issued  there- 
from. 

Mrs.  Slade  pressed  her  hands  tightly  in  both 
of  hers;  and  then  passed  in  with  her  to  the  room 
where  the  child  lay.  A glance  sufficed  to  tell  Mrs. 
Slade  that  death  had  already  laid  his  icy  fingers 
upon  her  brow. 

" How  are  you,  dear?”  she  asked,  as  she  bent 
over  and  kissed  her. 

“ Better,  I thank  you!  ” replied  Mary,  in  a low 
whisper. 

Then  she  fixed  her  eyes  upon  her  mother’s  face 
with  a look  of  inquiry. 

“ What  is  it,  love?  ” 

“ Hasn’t  father  waked  up  yet?  ” 

“ No,  dear.” 

“ Won’t  he  wake  up  soon?  ” 

“ He’s  sleeping  very  soundly.  I wouldn’t  like  to 
disturb  him.” 

“ Oh,  no;  don’t  disturb  him.  I thought,  maybe, 
he  was  awake.” 

And  the  child’s  lids  drooped  languidly,  until 
the  long  lashes  lay  close  against  her  cheeks. 

There  was  silence  for  a little  while,  and  then 
Mrs.  Morgan  said  in  a half-whisper  to  Mrs.  Slade: 

“ Oh,  we’ve  had  such  a dreadful  time  with  poor 
Joe.  He  got  in  that  terrible  way  again  last  night. 
I had  to  go  for  Doctor  Green  and  leave  him  all 
alone.  When  I came  back,  he  was  in  bed  with 
Mary;  and  she,  dear  child!  had  her  arms  around 
his  neck,  and  was  trying  to  comfort  him;  and 
would  you  believe  it,  he  went  off  to  sleep,  and 
slept  in  that  way  for  a long  time.  The  doctor 
came,  and  when  he  saw  how  it  was,  left  some  medi- 
cine for  him,  and  went  away.  I was  in  such  hopes 
that  he  would  sleep  it  all  off.  But  about  twelve 
o’clock  he  started  up,  and  sprung  out  of  bed  with 
an  awful  scream.  Poor  Mary!  she  too  had  fallen 


i 


70  TEN  nights  in  a bar-room. 

asleep.  The  cry  wakened  her,  and  frightened  her 
dreadfully.  She's  been  getting  worse  ever  since, 
Mrs.  Slade. 

“ Just  as  he  was  rushing  out  of  the  room,  I 
caught  him  by  the  arm,  and  it  took  all  my  strength 
to  hold  him. 

Father!  father!'  Mary  called  after  him,  as 
soon  as  she  was  awake  enough  to  understand  what 
was  the  matter — ‘ Don't  go  out,  father ; there's 
nothing  here.' 

“ He  looked  back  toward  the  bed,  in  a frightful 
way. 

“ ‘ See,  father! ' and  the  dear  child  turned  down 
the  quilt  and  sheet,  in  order  to  convince  him  that 
nothing  was  in  the  bed.  ‘ I’m  here,'  she  added. 
4 I'm  not  afraid.  Come,  father.  If  there's  nothing 
here  to  hurt  me,  there's  nothing  to  hurt  you.' 

“ There  was  something  so  assuring  in  this,  that 
Joe  took  a step  or  two  toward  the  bed,  looking 
sharply  into  it  as  he  did  so.  From  the  bed  his 
eyes  wandered  up  to  the  ceiling,  and  the  old  look 
of  terror  came  into  his  face. 

“ ‘ There  it  is  now!  Jump  out  of  bed,  quick! 
Jump  out,  Mary! ' he  cried.  ‘ See!  it's  right  over 
your  head.' 

“ Mary  showed  no  sign  of  fear  as  she  lifted  her 
eyes  to  the  ceiling,  and  gazed  steadily  for  a few 
moments  in  that  direction. 

“ ‘ There's  nothing  there,  father/  said  she,  in  a 
confident  voice. 

“ ‘ It's  gone  now,'  Joe  spoke  in  a tone  of  relief. 
‘ Your  angel-look  drove  it  away.  Aha!  There  it  is 
now,  creeping  along  the  floor!'  he  suddenly  ex- 
claimed, fearfully;  starting  away  from  where  he 
stood. 

“ ‘ Here,  father!  Here!'  Mary  called  to  him, 
and  he  sprung  into  the  bed  again ; while  she  gath- 
ered her  arms  about  him  tightly,  saying  in  a low, 


NIGHT  THE  FOURTH.  7X 

soothing  voice,  / Nothing  can  harm  you  here, 
father.' 

“ Without  a moment's  delay,  I gave  him  the 
morphine  left  by  Doctor  Green.  He  took  it  eag- 
erly, and  then  crouched  down  in  the  bed,  while 
Mary  continued  to  assure  him  of  perfect  safety. 
So  long  as  he  was  clearly  conscious  as  to  where 
he  was,  he  remained  perfectly  still.  But,  as  soon 
as  partial  slumber  came,  he  would  scream  out,  and 
spring  from  the  bed  in  terror  and  then  it  would 
take  us  several  minutes  to  quiet  him  again.  Six 
times  during  the  night  did  this  occur;  and  as  often, 
Mary  coaxed  him  back.  The  morphine  I contin- 
ued to  give  as  the  doctor  had  directed.  By  morn- 
ing, the  opiates  had  done  their  work,  and  he  was 
sleeping  soundly.  When  the  doctor  came,  we  re- 
moved him  to  his  own  bed.  He  is  still  asleep;  and 
I begin  to  feel  uneasy,  lest  he  should  never  awake 
again.  I have  heard  of  this  happening." 

“ See  if  father  isn't  awake,"  said  Mary,  raising 
her  head  from  the  pillow.  She  had  not  heard  what 
had  passed  between  her  mother  and  Mrs.  Slade, 
for  the  conversation  was  carried  on  in  low  voices. 

Mrs.  Morgan  stepped  to  the  door,  and  looked 
into  the  room  where  her  husband  lay. 

“ He  is  still  asleep,  dear,"  she  remarked,  com- 
ing back  to  the  bed. 

“ Oh!  I wish  he  was  awake.  I want  to  see  him 
so  much.  Won't  you  call  him,  mother?  " 

“ I have  called  him  a good  many  times.  But 
you  know  the  doctor  gave  him  opium.  He  can’t 
wake  up  yet." 

“ He's  been  sleeping  a very  long  time;  don't  you 
think  so,  mother?" 

“ Yes,  dear,  it  does  seem  a long  time.  But  it  is 
best  for  him.  He’ll  be  better  when  he  wakes." 

Mary  closed  her  eyes,  wearily.  How  deathly 


72  TEN  NIGHTS  IN  A BAR-ROOM. 

white  was  her  face — how  sunken  her  eyes — how 
sharply  contracted  her  features! 

“ I’ve  given  her  up,  Mrs.  Slade,”  said  Mrs.  Mor- 
gan, in  a low,  rough,  choking  whisper,  as  she 
leaned  nearer  to  her  friend.  “ I’ve  given  her  up! 
The  worst  is  over;  but,  oh!  it  seemed  as  though 
my  heart  would  break  in  the  struggle.  Dear  child! 
In  all  the  darkness  of  my  way,  she  has  helped  and 
comforted  me.  Without  her,  it  would  have  been 
the  blackness  of  darkness.” 

“Father!  father!”  The  voice  of  Mary  broke 
out  with  a startling  quickness. 

Mrs.  Morgan  turned  to  the  bed,  and  laying  her 
hand  on  Mary’s  arm,  said: 

“ He’s  still  sound  asleep,  dear.” 

“ No,  he  isn’t,  mother.  I heard  him  move. 
Won’t  you  go  in  and  see  if  he  is  awake?  ” 

In  order  to  satisfy  the  child,  her  mother  left 
the  room.  To  her  surprise,  she  met  the  eyes  of 
her  husband  as  she  entered  the  chamber  where 
he  lay.  He  looked  at  her  calmly. 

“ What  does  Mary  want  with  me?  ” he  asked. 
“ She  wishes  to  see  you.  She’s  called  you  so 
many,  many  times.  Shall  I bring  her  in  here?  ” 

“ No.  I’ll  get  up  and  dress  myself.” 

“ I wouldn’t  do  that.  You’ve  been  sick.” 

“ Oh,  no.  I don’t  feel  sick.” 

“ Father!  father!  ” The  clear,  earnest  voice  of 
Mary  was  heard  calling. 

“ I’m  coming,  dear,”  answered  Morgan. 

“ Come  quick,  father,  won’t  you?” 

“Yes,  love.”  And  Morgan  got  up  and  dressed 
himself — but  with  unsteady  hands,  and  every  sign 
of  nervous  prostration.  In  a little  while,  with  the 
assistance  of  his  wife,  he  was  ready,  and  support- 
ed by  her,  came  tottering  into  the  room  where 
Mary  was  lying. 

“Oh,  father!” — what  a light  broke  over  her 


NIQHT  THE  FOURTH.  73 

countenance — “ I've  been  waiting  for  you  so  long.' 
I thought  you  were  never  going  to  wake  up.  Kiss 
me,  father.” 

“ What  can  I do  for  you,  Mary?”  asked  Mor- 
gan, tenderly,  as  he  laid  his  face  down  upon  the 
pillow  beside  her. 

“ Nothing,  father.  I don't  wish  for  any  thing. 
I only  wanted  to  see  you.” 

“ I'm  here,  now,  love.” 

“Dear  father!”  How  earnestly,  yet  tenderly 
she  spoke,  laying  her  small  hand  upon  his  face. 
“ You've  always  been  good  to  me,  father.” 

“ Ohr  no.  I’ve  never  been  good  to  anybody,” 
sobbed  the  weak,  broken-spirited  man,  as  he 
raised  himself  from  the  pillow. 

How  deeply  touched  was  Mrs.  Slade,  as  she  sat, 
the  silent  witness  of  this  scene! 

“You  haven't  been  good  to  yourself,  father — 
but  you've  always  been  good  to  us.” 

“ Don't,  Mary!  don't  say  anything  about  that,” 
interrupted  Morgan.  “ Say  that  I've  been  very 
bad — very  wicked.  Oh,  Mary,  dear!  I only  wish 
that  I was  as  good  as  you  are;  I’d  like  to  die,  then, 
and  go  right  away  from  this  evil  world.  I wish 
there  was  no  liquor  to  drink — no  taverns — no  bar- 
rooms. Oh  dear!  Oh  dear!  I wish  I was  dead.” 

And  the  weak,  trembling,  half-palsied  man  laid 
his  face  again  upon  the  pillow  beside  his  child, 
and  sobbed  aloud. 

What  an  oppressive  silence  reigned  for  a time 
through  the  room! 

“ Father.”  The  stillness  was  broken  by  Mary. 
Her  voice  was  clear  and  even.  “ f ather,  I want  to 
tell  you  something.” 

“What  is  it,  Mary?” 

“ There'll  be  nobody  to  go  for  you,  father.” 
The  child's  lips  now  quivered,  and  tears  filled  into 
her  eyes, 


74  TEN  NIGHTS  IN  A BAR-ROOM. 

“ Don’t  talk  about  that,  Mary.  I’m  not  going 
out  in  the  evening  any  more  until  you  get  well. 
Don’t  you  remember  I promised?” 

“ But,  father  ” — She  hesitated. 

“ What,  dear?” 

“ I’m  going  away  to  leave  you  and  mother.” 
“Oh,  no — no — no,  Mary!  Don’t  say  that.” — 
The  poor  man’s  voice  was  broken. — “ Don’t  say 
that!  We  can’t  let  you  go,  dear.” 

6<  God  has  called  me.”  The  child’s  voice  had  a 
solemn  tone,  and  her  eyes  turned  reverently  up- 
ward. 

“ I wish  he  would  call  me!  Oh,  I wish  he  would 
call  me!  ” groaned  Morgan,  hiding  his  face  in  his 
hands.  “What  shall  I do  when  you  are  gone? 
Oh,  dear!  Oh,  dear!  ” 

“ Father!  ” Mary  spoke  calmly  again.  “ You 
are  not  ready  to  go  yet.  God  will  let  you  live  here 
longer,  that  you  may  get  ready.” 

“ How  can  I get  ready  without  you  to  help  me, 
Mary?  My  angel  child! 

“ Haven’t  I tried  to  help  you,  father,  oh,  so 
many  times?  ” said  Mary. 

“ Yes — yes — you’ve  always  tried/’ 

“ But  it  wasn’t  any  use.  You  would  go  out — 
you  would  go  to  the  tavern.  It  seemed  almost 
as  if  you  couldn’t  help  it.” 

Morgan  groaned  in  spirit. 

“ Maybe  I can  help  you  better,  father,  after  I 
die.  I love  you  so  much,  that  I am  sure  God  will 
let  me  come  to  you,  and  stay  with  you  always,  and 
be  your  angel.  Don’t  you  think  he  will,  mother?  ” 
But  Mrs.  Morgan’s  heart  was  too  full.  She  did 
not  even  try  to  answer,  but  sat,  with  streaming 
eyes,  gazing  upon  her  child’s  face. 

“ Father,  I dreamed  something  about  you,  while 
I slept  to-day.”  Mary  again  turned  to  her  father. 
“What  was  it,  dear?” 


NIGHT  THE  FOURTH.  75 

“ I thought  it  was  night,  and  that  I was  still 
sick.  You  promised  not  to  go  out  again  until  I 
was  well.  But  you  did  go  out;  and  I thought  you 
went  over  to  Mr.  Slade's  tavern.  When  I knew 
this,  I felt  as  strong  as  when  I was  well,  and  I 
got  up  and  dressed  myself,  and  started  out  after 
you.  But  I hadn't  gone  far,  before  I met  Mr. 
Slade's  great  bull-dog,  Nero,  and  he  growled  at 
me  so  dreadfully  that  I was  frightened  and  ran 
back  home.  Then  I started  again,  and  went  away 
round  by  Mr.  Mason's.  But  there  was  Nero  in 
the  road,  and  this  time  he  caught  my  dress  in  his 
mouth  and  tore  a great  piece  out  of  the  skirt.  I 
ran  back  again,  and  he  chased  me  all  the  way 
home.  Just  as  I got  to  the  door,  I looked  around, 
and  there  was  Mr.  Slade,  setting  Nero  on  me.  As 
soon  as  I saw  Mr.  Slade,  though  he  looked  at 
me  very  wicked,  I lost  all  my  fear,  and  turning 
around,  I walked  past  Nero,  who  showed  his 
teeth,  and  grovfed  as  fiercely  as  ever,  but  didn’t 
touch  me.  Then  Mr.  Slade  tried  to  stop  me.  But 
I didn't  mind  him,  and  kept  right  on,  until  I came 
to  the  tavern,  and  there  you  stood  in  the  door. 
And  you  were  dressed  so  nice.  You  had  on  a 
new  hat  and  a new  coat;  and  your  boots  were 
new,  and  polished  just  like  Judge  Hammond's.  I 
said:  'Oh,  father!  is  this  you?'  And  then  you 
took  me  up  in  your  arms  and  kissed  me,  and  said : 
‘ Yes,  Mary,  I am  your  real  father.  Not  old  Joe 
Morgan — but  Mr.  Morgan  now.'  It  seemed  all 
so  strange,  that  I looked  into  the  bar-room  to 
see  who  was  there.  But  it  wasn't  a bar-room 
any  longer;  but  a store  full  of  goods.  The  sign 
of  the  Sickle  and  Sheaf  was  taken  down;  and  over 
the  door  I now  read  your  name,  father.  Oh!  I 
was  so  glad,  that  I awoke — and  then  I cried  all 
to  myself,  for  it  was  only  a dream." 

The  last  words  were  said  very  mournfully,  and 


76  TEN  MIGHTS  IN  A BAR-ROOM. 

with  a drooping  of  Mary’s  lids,  until  the  tear- 
gemmed  lashes  lay  close  upon  her  cheeks.  An- 
other period  of  deep  silence  followed — for  the 
oppressed  listeners  gave  no  utterance  to  what 
was  in  their  hearts.  Feeling  was  too  strong  for 
speech.  Nearly  five  minutes  glided  away,  and 
then  Mary  whispered  the  name  of  her  father,  but 
without  opening  her  eyes. 

Morgan  answered,  and  bent  down  his  ear. 

"You  will  only  have  mother  left,”  she  said — 
“ only  mother.  And  she  cries  so  much  when  you 
are  away.” 

“ I won’t  leave  her,  Mary,  only  when  I go  to 
work,”  said  Morgan,  whispering  back  to  the  child. 
“ And  I’ll  never  go  out  at  night  any  more.” 

“Yes;  you  promised  me  that.” 

“ And  I’ll  promise  more.” 

“ What,  father?  ” 

“ Never  to  go  into  a tavern  again.” 

“ Never!” 

“ No,  never.  And  I’ll  promise  still  more.” 

“ Father?” 

“ Never  to  drink  a drop  of  liquor  as  long  as  I 

live.” 

“Oh,  father!  dear,  dear  father!”  And  with  a 
cry  of  joy  Mary  started  up  and  flung  herself  upon 
his  breast.  Morgan  drew  his  arms  tightly  around 
her,  and  sat  for  a long  time,  with  his  lips  pressed 
to  her  cheek — while  she  lay  against  his  bosom 
as  still  as  death.  As  death?  Yes;  for,  when  the 
father  unclasped  his  arms,  the  spirit  of  his  child 
was  with  the  angels  of  the  resurrection! 


It  was  my  fourth  evening  in  the  bar-room  oT 
the  “ Sickle  and  Sheaf.”  The  company  was  not 
large,  nor  in  very  gay  spirits.  All  had  heard  of 


NIGHT  THE  FOURTH.  77 

little  Mary’s  illness;  which  followed  so  quickly 
on  the  blow  from  the  tumbler,  that  none  hesitated 
about  connecting  the  one  with  the  other.  So 
regular  had  been  the  child’s  visits,  and  so  gently 
exerted,  yet  powerful,  her  influence  over  her 
father,  that  most  of  the  frequenters  at  the  “ Sickle 
and  Sheaf  ” had  felt  for  her  a more  than  common 
interest;  which  the  cruel  treatment  she  received, 
and  the  subsequent  illness,  materially  heightened. 

“ Joe  Morgan  hasn’t  turned  up  this  evening,” 
remarked  some  one. 

“ And  isn’t  likely  to  for  a while,”  was  answered. 
“ Why  not?”  inquired  the  first  speaker. 

“ They  say,  the  man  with  the  poker  is  after 
him.” 

''Oh,  dear!  that’s  dreadful.  It’s  the  second 
or  third  chase,  isn’t  it?  ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ He’ll  be  likely  to  catch  him  this  time.” 

“ I shouldn’t  wonder.” 

“ Poor  devil ! It  won’t  be  much  matter.  His 
family  will  be  a great  deal  better  without  him.” 

“ It  will  be  a blessing  to  them  if  he  dies/’ 

“ Miserable,  drunken  wretch!”  muttered  Har- 
vey Green,  who  was  present.  “ He’s  only  in  the 
way  of  everybody.  The  sooner  he’s  off,  the  bet- 
ter.” 

The  landlord  said  nothing.  He  stood  leaning 
across  the  bar,  looking  more  sober  than  usual. 

“ That  was  rather  an  unlucky  affair  of  yours, 
Simon.  They  say  the  child  is  going  to  die.” 

“ Who  says  so?  ” Slade  started,  scowled,  and 
threw  a quick  glance  upon  the  speaker. 

“ Doctor  Green.” 

“ Nonsense!  Doctor  Green  never  said  any 
such  thing.” 

“ Yes,  he  did,  though.” 

“ Who  heard  him?  ” 


78  TEN  NIGHTS  IN  A BAR-ROOM. 

" I did.” 

"You  did?  " 

" Yes." 

"He  wasn’t  in  earnest?"  A slight  paleness 
overspread  the  countenance  of  the  landlord. 

" He  was,  though.  They  had  an  awful  time 
there  last  night." 

" Where?" 

" At  Joe  Morgan’s.  Joe  has  the  mania,  and 
Mrs.  Morgan  was  alone  with  him  and  her  sick 
girl  all  night." 

"He  deserves  to  have  it;  that’s  all  I’ve  got 
to  say."  Slade  tried  to  speak  with  a kind  of  rough 
indifference. 

" That’s  pretty  hard  talk,"  said  one  of  the  com- 
pany. 

" I don’t  care  if  it  is.  It’s  the  truth.  What  else 
could  he  expect?" 

" A man  like  Joe  is  to  be  pitied,"  remarked  the 
other. 

" I pity  his  family,"  said  Slade. 

" Especially  little  Mary."  The  words  were  ut- 
tered tauntingly,  and  produced  murmurs  of  sat- 
isfaction throughout  the  room. 

Slade  started  back  from  where  he  stood,  in  an 
impatient  manner,  saying  something  that  I did 
not  hear. 

" Look  here,  Simon,  I heard  some  strong  sug- 
gestions over  at  Lawyer  Phillip’s  office  to-day." 

Slade  turned  his  eyes  upon  the  speaker. 

" If  that  child  should  die,  you’ll  probably  have 
to  stand  trial  for  manslaughter." 

" No — girl-slaughter,"  said  Harvey  Green,  with 
a cold,  inhuman  chuckle. 

" But,  I’m  in  earnest,"  said  the  other.  " Mr. 
Phillips  said  that  a case  could  be  made  out  of  it." 

" It  was  only  an  accident,  and  all  the  lawyers 
in  Christendom  can’t  make  anything  more  of  it," 


’NIGHT  THE  FOURTH.  79 

remarked  Green,  taking  the  side  of  the  landlord, 
and  speaking  with  more  gravity  than  before. 

“ Hardly  an  accident/’  was  replied. 

“ He  didn’t  throw  at  the  girl.” 

“ No  matter.  He  threw  a heavy  tumbler  at 
her  father’s  head.  The  intention  was  to  do  an  in- 
jury; and  the  law  will  not  stop  to  make  any  nice 
discriminations  in  regard  to  the  individual  upon 
whom  the  injury  was  wrought.  Moreover,  who 
is  prepared  to  say  that  he  didn’t  aim  at  the  girl?  ” 

“ Any  man  who  intimates  such  a thing  is  a 
cursed  liar!  ” exclaimed  the  landlord,  half  mad- 
dened by  the  suggestion. 

“ I won’t  throw?  a tumbler  at  your  head,”  coolly 
remarked  the  individual  whose  plain  speaking  had 
so  irritated  Simon  Slade.  “ Throwing  tumblers 
I never  thought  a very  creditable  kind  of  argu- 
ment— though  with  some  men,  when  cornered,  it 
is  a favorite  mode  of  settling  a question.  Now, 
as  for  our  friend  the  landlord,  I am  sorry  to  say 
that  his  new  business  doesn’t  seem  to  have  im- 
proved either  his  manners  or  his  temper  a great 
deal.  As  a miller,  he  was  one  of  the  best-tem- 
pered men  in  the  world,  and  wouldn’t  have 
harmed  a kitten.  But,  now,  he  can  swear,  and 
bluster,  and  throw  glasses  at  people’s  heads,  and 
all  that  sort  of  thing,  with  the  best  of  brawling 
rowdies.  I’m  afraid  he’s  taking  lessons  in  a bad 
school — I am.” 

“ I don’t  think  you  have  any  right  to  insult  a 
man  in  his  own  house,”  answered  Slade,  in  a 
voice  dropped  to  a lower  key  than  the  one  in 
which  he  had  before  spoken. 

“ I had  no  intention  to  insult  you,”  said  the 
other.  “ I was  only  speaking  supposititiously,  and 
in  view  of  your  position  on  a trial  for  manslaugh- 
ter, when  I suggested  that  no  one  could  prove, 


80  TEN  NIGHTS  IN  A BAR-ROOM. 

or  say  that  you  didn’t  mean  to  strike  little  Mary, 
when  you  threw  the  tumbler.” 

“ Well,  I didn’t  mean  to  strike  her;  and  I don’t 
believe  there  is  a man  in  this  bar-room  who  thinks 
that  I did — not  one.” 

“ I’m  sure  I do  not,”  said  the  individual  with 
whom  he  was  in  controversy.  “ Nor  I ” — “ Nor 
I ” — went  round  the  room. 

“ But,  as  I wished  to  set  forth,”  was  continued, 
“ the  case  will  not  be  so  plain  a one  when  it 
finds  its  way  into  court,  and  twelve  men,  to  each 
of  whom  you  may  be  a stranger,  come  to  sit  in 
judgment  upon  the  act.  The  slightest  twist  in 
the  evidence,  the  prepossessions  of  a witness,  or 
the  bad  tact  of  the  prosecution,  may  cause  things 
to  look  so  dark  on  your  side  as  to  leave  you  but 
little  chance.  For  my  part,  if  the  child  should 
die,  I think  your  chances  for  a term  in  the  state’s 
prison  are  as  eight  to  ten;  and  I should  call  that 
pretty  close  cutting.” 

I looked  attentively  at  the  man  who  said  this, 
all  the  while  he  was  speaking,  but  could  not 
clearly  make  out  whether  he  were  altogether  in 
earnest,  or  merely  trying  to  worry  the  mind  of 
Slade.  That  he  was  successful  in  accomplishing 
the  latter,  was  very  plain ; for  the  landlord’s  coun- 
tenance steadily  lost  color,  and  became  overcast 
with  alarm.  With  that  evil  delight  which  some 
men  take  in  giving  pain,  others,  seeing  Slade’s 
anxious  looks,  joined  in  the  persecution,  and  soon 
madeThe  landlord’s  case  look  black  enough;  and 
the  landlord  himself  almost  as  frightened  as  a 
criminal  just  under  arrest. 

“ It’s  bad  business,  and  no  mistake,”  said  one. 

“ Yes,  bad  enough.  I wouldn’t  be  in  his  shoes 
for  his  coat,”  remarked  another. 

“ For  his  coat?  No,  not  for  his  whole  ward- 
robe,” said  a third. 


NIGHT  THE  FOURTH . 81 

“ Nor  for  the  Sickle  and  Sheaf  thrown  into 
the  bargain/'  added  a fourth. 

“ It  will  be  a clear  case  of  manslaughter,  and 
no  mistake.  What  is  the  penalty?  " 

“ From  two  to  ten  years  in  the  penitentiary/' 
was  readily  answered. 

“ They'll  give  him  five,  I reckon.” 

“ No — not  more  than  two.  It  will  be  hard  to 
prove  malicious  intention." 

“ I don't  know  that.  I've  heard  him  curse 
the  girl  and  threaten  her  many  a time.  Haven’t 
you?" 

“ Yes  “ Yes  “ I have,  often,"  ran  around 
the  bar-room. 

“ You'd  better  hang  me  at  once,"  said  Slade, 
affecting  to  laugh. 

At  this  moment,  the  door  behind  Slade  opened, 
and  I saw  his  wife's  anxious  face  thrust  in  for  a 
moment.  She  said  something  to  her  husband, 
who  uttered  a low  ejaculation  of  surprise,  and 
went  out  quickly. 

“What's  the  matter  now?"  asked  one  of  an- 
other. 

“ I shouldn't  wonder  if  little  Mary  Morgan 
was  dead,"  was  suggested. 

“ I heard  her  say  dead,"  remarked  one  who 
was  standing  near  the  bar. 

“What's  the  matter,  Frank?"  inquired  several 
voices,  as  the  landlord’s  son  came  in  through 
the  door  out  of  which  his  father  had  passed. 

“ Mary  Morgan  is  dead,"  answered  the  boy. 

“ Poor  child!  Poor  child!  " sighed  one,  in  gen- 
uine regret  at  the  not  unlooked  for  intelligence. 
“ Her  trouble  is  over." 

And  there  was  not  one  present,  but  Harvey 
Green,  who-  did  not  utter  some  word  of  pity  or 
sympathy.  He  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  looked 


82  TEN  NIGHTS  IN  A BAR-ROOM . 

as  much  of  contempt  and  indifference  as  he 
thought  it  prudent  to  express. 

“ See  here,  boys,”  spoke  out  one  of  the  com- 
pany, “ can't  we  do  something  for  poor  Mrs. 
Morgan?  Can't  we  make  up  a purse  for  her?  ” 

“ That's  it,”  was  quickly  responded;  “ I'm  good 
for  three  dollars;  and  there  they  are,”  drawing  out 
the  money  and  laying  it  upon  the  counter. 

“ And  here  are  five  to  go  with  them,”  said  I, 
quickly  stepping  forward,  and  placing  a five-dol- 
lar  bill  alongside  of  the  first  contribution. 

“ Here  are  five  more,”  added  a third  individ- 
ual. And  so  it  went  on,  until  thirty  dollars  were 
paid  down  for  the  benefit  of  Mrs.  Morgan. 

“ Into  whose  hands  shall  this  be  placed?”  was 
next  asked. 

“ Let  me  suggest  Mrs.  Slade,”  said  I.  “ To 
my  certain  knowledge,  she  has  been  with  Mrs. 
Morgan  to-night.  I know  that  she  feels  in  her  a 
true  woman's  interest.” 

“ Just  the  person,”  was  answered.  “ Frank, 
tell  your  mother  we  would  like  to  see  her.  Ask 
her  to  step  into  the  sitting-room.” 

In  a few  moments  the  boy  came  back,  and  said 
that  his  mother  would  see  us  in  the  next  room, 
into  which  we  all  passed.  Mrs.  Slade  stood  near 
the  table,  on  which  burned  a lamp.  I noticed 
that  her  eyes  were  red,  and  that  there  was  on  her 
countenance  a troubled  and  sorrowful  expres- 
sion. 

“ We  have  just  heard,”  said  one  of  the  com- 
pany, “ that  little  Mary  Morgan  is  dead.” 

"Yes — it  is  too  true,”  answered  Mrs.  Slade, 
mournfully.  “ I have  just  left  there.  Poor  child! 
she  has  passed  from  an  evil  world.” 

“ Evil  it  has  indeed  been  to  her,”  was  re- 
marked. 

“ You  may  well  say  that.  And  yet,  amid  all 


NIGHT  THE  FOURTH. 


83 

the  evil,  she  has  been  an  angel  of  mercy.  Her 
last  thought  in  dying  was  of  her  miserable  father. 
For  him,  at  any  time,  she  would  have  laid  down 
her  life  willingly/' 

“ Her  mother  must  be  nearly  broken-hearted. 
Mary  is  the  last  of  her  children." 

“ And  yet  the  child's  death  may  prove  a bless- 
ing to  her." 

“ How  so?" 

“ Her  father  promised  Mary,  just  at  the  last 
moment— solemnly  promised  her — that,  hence- 
forth, he  would  never  taste  liquor.  That  was  all 
her  trouble.  That  was  the  thorn  in  her  dying 
pillow.  But  he  plucked  it  out,  and  she  went  to 
sleep,  lying  against  his  heart.  Oh,  gentlemen! 
it  was  the  most  touching  sight  I ever  saw." 

All  present  seemed  deeply  moved. 

“ They  are  very  poor  and  wretched,"  was  said. 

“ Poor  and  miserable  enough,"  answered  Mrs. 
Slade. 

“ We  have  just  been  taking  up  a collection  for 
Mrs.  Morgan.  Here  is  the  money,  Mrs.  Slade — 
thirty  dollars — we  place  it  in  your  hands  for  her 
benefit.  Do  with  it,  for  her,  as  you  may  see 
best." 

“ Oh,  gentlemen!  " What  a quick  gleam  went 
over  the  face  of  Mrs.  Slade.  “ I thank  you,  from 
my  heart,  in  the  name  of  that  unhappy  one,  for 
this  act  of  true  benevolence.  To  you  the  sacrifice 
has  been  small;  to  her  the  benefit  will  be  great 
indeed.  A new  life  will,  I trust,  be  commenced 
by  her  husband,  and  this  timely  aid  will  be  some- 
thing to  rest  upon,  until  he  can  get  into  better 
employment  than  he  now  has.  Oh,  gentlemen! 
let  me  urge  on  you,  one  and  all,  to  make  com- 
mon cause  in  favor  of  Joe  Morgan,  His  pur- 
poses are  good  now;  he  means  to  keep  his  prom- 
ise to  his  dying  child — means  to  reform  his  life. 


84  TEN  NIGHTS  IN  A BAR-ROOM. 

Let  the  good  impulses  that  led  to  this  act  of 
relief  further  prompt  you  to  watch  over  him, 
and,  if  you  see  him  about  going  astray,  to  lead 
him  kindly  back  into  the  right  path.  Never — oh! 
never  encourage  him  to  drink;  but  rather  take 
the  glass  from  his  hand,  if  his  own  appetite  lead 
him  aside,  and  by  all  the  persuasive  influence  you 
possess,  induce  him  to  go  out  from  the  place  of 
temptation. 

“ Pardon  my  boldness  in  saying  so  much,” 
added  Mrs.  Slade,  recollecting  herself,  and  color- 
ing deeply  as  she  did  so.  “ My  feelings  have  led 
me  away.” 

And  she  took  the  money  from  the  table  where 
it  had  been  placed,  and  retired  toward  the  door. 

“ You  have  spoken  well,  madam,”  was  an- 
swered. “ And  we  thank  you  for  reminding  us 
of  our  duty.” 

“ One  word  more — and  forgive  the  earnest 
heart  from  which  it  comes  ” — said  Mrs.  Slade,  in 
a voice  that  trembled  on  the  words  she  uttered. 
“ I cannot  help  speaking,  gentlemen!  Think  if 
some  of  you  be  not  entering  the  road  wherein 
Joe  Morgan  has  so  long  been  walking.  Save 
him,  in  heaven’s  name! — but  see  that  ye  do  not 
yourselves  become  cast-aways!  ” 

As  she  said  this,  she  glided  through  the  door, 
and  it  closed  after  her. 

“ I don’t  know  what  her  husband  would  say 
to  that,”  was  remarked  after  a few  moments  of 
surprised  silence. 

“ I don’t  care  what  he  would  say;  but  I’ll  tell 
you  what  I will  say,”  spoke  out  a man  whom  I 
had  several  times  noticed  as  rather  a free  tip- 
pler. “The  old  lady  has  given  us  capital  ad- 
vice, and  I mean  to  take  it,  for  one.  I’m  going 
to  try  to  save  Joe  Morgan,  and — myself  too.  I’ve 
already  entered  the  road  she  referred  to;  but  I’m 


NIGHT  THE  FOURTH. 


85 

going  to  turn  back.  So  good-night  to  you  all; 
and  if  Simon  Slade  gets  no  more  of  my  sixpences, 
he  may  thank  his  wife  for  it — God  bless  her!  ” 
And  the  man  drew  his  hat  with  a jerk  over  his 
forehead,  anvd  left  immediately. 

This  seemed  the  signal  for  dispersion,  and  all 
retired — not  by  way  of  the  bar-room,  but  out 
into  the  hall,  and  through  the  door  leading  upon 
the  porch  that  ran  along  in  front  of  the  house. 
Soon  after  the  bar  was  closed,  and  a dead  silence 
reigned  throughout  the  house.  I saw  no  more 
of  Slade  that  night.  Early  in  the  morning,  I 
left  Cedarville;  the  landlord  looked  very  sober 
when  he  bade  me  good-by  through  the  stage- 
door,  and  wished  me  a pleasant  journey. 


-86  TEN  nights  in  a bar-room. 
* 

) 


NIGHT  THE  FIFTH. 

rfOME  OF  THE  CONSEQUENCES  OF  TAVERN- 

KEEPING. 

Nearly  five  years  glided  away  before  business 
again  called  me  to  Cedarville.  I knew  little  of 
what  passed  there  in  the  interval,  except  that 
Simon  Slade  had  actually  been  indicted  for  man- 
slaughter, in  causing  the  death  of  Morgan’s  child. 
He  did  not  stand  a trial,  however,  Judge  Lyman 
having  used  his  influence,  successfully,  in  getting 
the  indictment  quashed.  The  judge,  some  people 
said,  interested  himself  in  Slade  more  than  was 
just  seemly — especially,  as  he  had,  on  several 
occasions,  in  the  discharge  of  his  official  duties, 
displayed  what  seemed  an  over-righteous  indig- 
nation against  individuals  arraigned  for  petty  of- 
fences. The  impression  made  upon  me  by  Judge 
Lyman  had  not  been  favorable.  He  seemed  a 
cold,  selfish,  scheming  man  of  the  world.  That 
he  was  an  unscrupulous  politician,  was  plain  to 
me,  in  a single  evening’s  observation  of  his  say- 
ings and  doings  among  the  common  herd  of  a 
village  bar-room. 

As  the  stage  rolled,  with  a gay  flourish  of  our 
driver’s  bugle,  into  the  vilage,  I noted  here  and 
there  familiar  objects,  and  marked  the  varied 
evidences  of  change.  Our  way  was  past  the  ele- 
gant residence  and  grounds  of  Judge  Hammond, 
the  most  beautiful  and  highly  cultivated  in  Ce- 
darville. At  least,  such  it  was  regarded  at  the 
time  of  my  previous  visit.  But,  the  moment  my 


NIGHT  THE  FIFTH. 


87 

eyes  rested  upon  the  dwelling  and  its  varied  sur- 
roundings, I perceived  an  altered  aspect.  Was 
it  the  simple  work  of  time?  or,  had  familiarity 
with  other  and  more  elegantly  arranged  suburban 
homes,  marred  this  in  my  eyes  by  involuntary 
contrast?  Or  had  the  hand  of  cultivation  really 
been  stayed,  and  the  marring  fingers  of  neglect 
suffered  undisturbed  to  trace  on  every  thing  dis- 
figuring characters? 

Such  questions  were  in  my  thoughts,  when  I 
saw  a man  in  the  large  portico  of  the  dwelling, 
the  ample  columns  of  which,  capped  in  rich  Co- 
rinthian, gave  the  edifice  the  aspect  of  a Grecian 
temple.  He  stood  leaning  against  one  of  the 
columns — his  hat  off,  and  his  long  gray  hair 
thrown  back  and  resting  lightly  on  his  neck  and 
shoulders.  His  - head  was  bent  down  upon  his 
breast,  and  he  seemed  in  deep  abstraction.  Just 
as  the  coach  swept  by,  he  looked  up,  and  in  the 
changed  features  I recognized  Judge  Hammond. 
His  complexion  was  still  florid,  but  his  face  had 
grown  thin,  and  his  eyes  were  sunken.  Trouble 
was  written  in  every  lineament.  Trouble?  How 
inadequately  does  the  word  express  my  meaning! 
Ah!  at  a single  glance,  what  a volume  of  suffer- 
ing was  opened  to  the  gazer's  eye.  Not  lightly 
had  the  foot  of  time  rested  there,  as  if  treading 
on  odorous  flowers,  but  heavily,  and  with  iron- 
shod  heel.  This  I saw  at  a glance;  and  then,  only 
the  image  of  the  man  was  present  to  my  inner 
vision,  for  the  swiftly  rolling  stage-coach  had 
borne  me  onward  past  the  altered  home  of  the 
wealthiest  denizen  of  Cedarville.  In  a few  min- 
utes our  driver  reined  up  before  the  “ Sickle  and 
Sheaf/’  and  as  I stepped  to  the  ground,  a rotund, 
coarse,  red-faced  man,  whom  I failed  to  recog- 
nize as  Simon  Slade  until  he  spoke,  grasped  my 
hand,  and  pronounced  my  name.  I could  not  but 


88  ten  nights:  in  a bar-room . 

contrast,  in  thought,  his  appearance  with  what 
it  was  when  I first  saw  him,  some  six  years  pre- 
viously; nor  help  saying  to  myself: 

“ So  much  for  tavern-keeping!  ” 

As  marked  a change  was  visible  everywhere  in 
and  around  the  “ Sickle  and  Sheaf.”  It,  too,  had 
grown  larger  by  additions  of  wings  and  rooms; 
but  it  had  also  grown  coarser  in  growing  larger. 
When  built,  all  the  doors  were  painted  white,  and 
the  shutters  green,  giving  to  the  house  a neat, 
even  tasteful  appearance.  But  the  white  and 
green  had  given  place  to  a dark,  dirty  brown, 
that  to  my  eyes  was  particularly  unattractive.  The 
bar-room  had  been  extended,  and  now  a polished 
brass  rod,  or  railing,  embellished  the  counter,  and 
sundry  ornamental  attractions  had  been  given  to 
the  shelving  behind  the  bar — such  as  mirrors, 
gilding,  etc.  Pictures,  too,  were  hung  upon  the 
walls,  or  more  accurately  speaking,  coarse  col- 
ored lithographs,  the  subjects  of  which,  if  not 
really  obscene,  were  flashing,  or  vulgar.  In  the 
sitting-room,  next  to  the  bar,  I noticed  little 
change  of  objects,  but  much  in  their  condition. 
The  carpet,  chairs,  and  tables  were  the  same  in 
fact,  but  far  from  being  the  same  in  appearance. 
The  room  had  a close,  greasy  odor,  and  looked  as 
if  it  had  not  been  thoroughly  swept  and  dusted 
for  a week. 

A smart  young  Irishman  was  in  the  bar,  and 
handed  me  the  book  in  which  passengers'  names 
were  registered.  After  I had  recorded  mine,  he 
directed  my  trunk  to  be  carried  to  the  room  des- 
ignated as  the  one  I was  to  occupy.  I followed 
the  porter,  who  conducted  me  to  the  chamber 
which  had  been  mine  at  previous  visits.  Here, 
too,  were  evidences  of  change;  but  not  for  the 
better.  Then  the  room  was  as  sweet  and  clean 
as  it  could  be;  the  sheets  and  pillow-cases  as  white 


NIGHT  THE  FIFTH. 


S9 

as  snow,  and  the  furniture  shining  with  polish. 
Now  all  was  dusty  and  dingy,  the  air  foul,  and 
the  bed-linen  scarcely  whiter  than  tow.  No  cur- 
tain made  softer  the  light  as  it  came  through  the 
window;  nor  would  the  shutters  entirely  keep 
out  the  glare,  for  several  of  the  slats  were  broken. 
A feeling  of  disgust  came  over  me,  at  the  close 
smell  and  foul  appearance  of  everything;  so,  after 
washing  my  hands  and  face,  and  brushing  the 
dust  from  my  clothes,  I went  down-stairs.  The 
sitting-room  was  scarcely  more  attractive  than 
my  chamber;  so  I went  out  upon  the  porch  and 
took  a chair.  Several  loungers  were  here;  hearty, 
strong-looking,  but  lazy  fellows,  who,  if  they  had 
anything  to  do,  liked  idling  better  than  working. 
One  of  them  had  leaned  his  chair  back  against  the 
wall  of  the  house,  and  was  swinging  his  legs  with 
a half  circular  motion,  and  humming  “ Old  Folks 
at  Home.  Another  sat  astride  of  his  chair,  with 
his  face  turned  toward,  and  his  chin  resting  upon, 
the  back.  He  was  in  too  lazy  a condition  of  body 
and  mind  for  motion  or  singing.  A third  had 
slidden  down  in  his  chair,  until  he  sat  on  his  back, 
while  his  feet  were  elevated  above  his  head,  and 
resting  against  one  of  the  pillars  that  supported 
the  porch;  while  a fourth  lay  stretched  out  on  a 
bench,  sleeping,  his  hat  over  his  face  to  protect 
him  from  buzzing  and  biting  flies. 

Though  all  but  the  sleeping  man  eyed  me  in- 
quisitively, as  I took  my  place  among  them,  not 
one  changed  his  position.  The  rolling  of  eye- 
balls cost  but  little  exertion;  and  with  that  effort 
they  were  contented. 

“ Hallo!  who’s  that?”  one  of  these  loungers 
suddenly  exclaimed,  as  a man  went  swiftly  by  in 
a light  sulky;  and  he  started  up,  and  gazed  down 
the  road,  seeking  to  penetrate  the  cloud  of  dust 


90  TEN  nights  in  a bar-room. 

which  the  fleet  rider  had  swept  up  with  hoofs  and 
wheels. 

“ I didn’t  see.”  The  sleeping  man  aroused  him- 
self, rubbed  his  eyes,  and  gazed  along  the  road. 

“ Who  was  it,  Matthew?  ” The  Irish  bar-keep- 
er now  stood  in  the  door. 

“ Willy  Hammond,”  was  answered  by  Matthew. 

“ Indeed!  Is  that  his  new  three  hundred  dollar 
horse?  ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ My!  but  he’s  a screamer!  ” 

“ Isn’t  he!  Most  as  fast  as  his  young  master.” 

“ Hardly,”  said  one  of  the  men,  laughing.  “ I 
don’t  think  anything  in  creation  can  beat  Ham- 
mond. He  goes  it  with  a perfect  rush.” 

“ Doesn’t  he!  Well;  you  may  say  what  you 
please  of  him,  he’s  as  good-hearted  a fellow  as 
ever  walked;  and  generous  to  a fault.” 

“ His  old  dad  will  agree  with  you  in  the  last 
remark,”  said  Matthew. 

“ No  doubt  of  that,  for  he  has  to  stand  the  bills,” 
was  answered. 

“ Yes,  whether  he  will  or  no,  for  I rather  think 
Willy  has,  somehow  or  other,  got  the  upper  hand 
of  him.” 

“ In  what  way?  ” 

“ It’s  Hammond  and  Son,  over  at  the  mill  and 
distillery.” 

“ I know;  but  what  of  that!  ” 

“ Willy  was  made  the  business  man — ostensi- 
bly— in  order,  as  the  old  man  thought,  to  get  him 
to  feel  the  responsibility  of  the  new  position,  and 
thus  tame  him  down.” 

“ Tame  him  down!  Oh,  dear!  It  will  take  more 
than  business  to  do  that.  The  curb  was  applied 
too  late.” 

“ As  the  old  gentleman  has  already  discovered, 
I’m  thinking,  to  his  sorrow.” 


NIGHT  THE  FIFTH . 91 

“ He  never  comes  here  any  more ; does  he, 
Matthew?” 

“ Who?  ” 

“ Judge  Hammond.” 

“ Oh,  dear,  no.  He  and  Slade  had  all  sorts  of 
a quarrel  about  a year  ago,  and  he's  never  dark- 
ened our  doors  since.” 

“ It  was  something  about  Willy  and  .” 

The  speaker  did  not  mention  any  name,  but 
winked  knowingly  and  tossed  his  head  toward  the 
entrance  of  the  house,  to  indicate  some  member 
of  Slade's  family. 

“ I believe  so.” 

“ D'ye  think  Willy  really  likes  her?  ” 

Matthew  shrugged  his  shoulders,  but  made  no 
answer. 

“ She's  a nice  girl,”  was  remarked  in  an  under- 
tone, and  good  enough  for  Hammond's  son  any 
day;  though,  if  she  were  my  daughter,  I'd  rather 
see  her  in  Jericho  than  fond  of  his  company.” 

“ He’ll  have  plenty  of  money  to  give  her.  She 
can  live  like  a queen.” 

“ For  how  long?  ” 

“Hush!”  came  from  the  lips  of  Matthew. 
“ There  she  is  now.” 

I looked  up,  and  saw  at  a short  distance  from 
the  house,  and  approaching,  a young  lady,  in 
whose  sweet,  modest  face,  I at  once  recognized 
Flora  Slade.  Five  years  had  developed  her  into 
a beautiful  woman.  In  her  alone,  of  all  that  ap- 
pertained to  Simon  Slade,  there  was  no  deteriora- 
tion. Her  eyes  were  as  mild  and  pure  as  when 
first  I met  her  at  gentle  sixteen,  and  her  father 
said  “ My  daughter,”  with  such  a mingling  of 
pride  and  affection  in  his  tone.  She  passed  near 
where  I was  sitting,  and  entered  the  house.  A 
closer  view  showed  me  some  marks  of  thought 
and  suffering;  but  they  only  heightened  the  at- 


92  TEN  NIGHTS  IN  A BAR-ROOM. 

tractions  of  her  face.  I failed  not  to  observe  the 
air  of  respect  with  which  all  returned  her  slight 
nod  and  smile  of  recognition. 

“ She’s  a nice  girl,  and  no  mistake — the  flower 
of  this  flock,”  was  said,  as  soon  as  she  passed  into 
the  house. 

“ Too  good  for  Willy  Hammond,  in  my  opin- 
ion,” said  Matthew,  “ clever  and  generous  as 
people  call  him.” 

“ Just  my  opinion,”  was  responded.  “ She’s  as 
pure  and  good,  almost,  as  an  angel;  and  he? — I 
can  tell  you  what — he’s  not  the  clear  thing.  He 
knows  a-  little  too  much  of  the  world — on  its  bad 
side,  I mean.” 

The  appearance  of  Slade  put  an  end  to  this  con- 
versation. A second  observation  of  his  person 
and  countenance  did  not  remove  the  first  unfa- 
vorable impression.  His  face  had  grown  decided- 
ly bad  in  expression,  as  well  as  gross  and  sens- 
ual. The  odor  of  his  breath,  as  he  took  a chair 
close  to  where  I was  sitting,  was  that  of  one  who 
drank  habitually  and  freely;  and  the  red,  swim- 
ming eyes  evidenced,  too  surely,  a rapid  progress 
toward  the  sad  condition  of  a confirmed  inebriate. 
There  was,  too,  a certain  thickness  of  speech, 
that  gave  another  corroborating  sign  of  evil  prog- 
ress. 

“ Have  you  seen  anything  of  Frank  this  after- 
noon?” he  inquired  of  Matthew,  after  we  had 
passed  a few  words. 

“ Nothing,”  was  the  bar-keeper’s  answer. 

“ I saw  him  with  Tom  Wilkins  as  I came  over,” 
said  one  of  the  men  who  was  sitting  on  the  porch. 

“What  was  he  doing  with  Tom  Wilkins?” 
said  Slade,  in  a fretted  tone  of  voice.  “ He  doesn’t 
seem  very  choice  of  his  company.” 

“ They  were  gunning.” 

“ Gunning!” 


NIGHT  THE  FIFTH.  93 

“ Yes.  They  both  had  fowling-pieces.  I wasn't 
near  enough  to  ask  where  they  were  going." 

This  information  disturbed  Slade  a good  deal. 
After  muttering  to  himself  a little  while,  he  start- 
ed up  and  went  into  the  house. 

“ And  I could  have  told  him  a little  more,  had 
I been  so  inclined,"  said  the  individual  who  men- 
tioned the  fact  that  Frank  was  with  Tom  Wilkins. 

“ What  more?"  inquired  Matthew. 

“ There  was  a buggy  in  the  case;  and  a cham- 
pagne basket.  What  the  latter  contained  you  can 
easily  guess." 

“ Whose  buggy?  " 

“ I don't  know  anything  about  the  buggy;  but 
if  ‘ Lightfoot ' doesn't  sink  in  value  a hundred 
dollars  or  so  before  sundown,  call  me  a false 
prophet." 

“ Oh,  no,"  said  Matthew,  incredulously.  “ Frank 
wouldn't  do  an  outrageous  thing  like  that.  Light- 
foot  won't  be  in  a condition  to  drive  for  a month 
to  come." 

“ I don't  care.  She's  out  now ; and  the  way 
she  was  putting  it  down  when  I saw  her,  would 
have  made  a locomotive  look  cloudy." 

“ Where  did  he  get  her?  " was  inquired. 

“ She's  been  in  the  six-acre  field,  over  by  Ma- 
son's Bridge,  for  the  last  week  or  so,"  Matthew 
answered.  “ Well,  all  I have  to  say,"  he  added, 
“ is  that  Frank  ought  to  be  slung  up  and  well 
horse-whipped.  I never  saw  such  a young  rascal. 
He  cares  for  no  good  and  fears  no  evil.  He's  the 
worst  boy  I ever  saw." 

“ It  would  hardly  do  for  you  to  call  him  a boy 
to  his  face,"  said  one  of  the  men,  laughing. 

“ I don't  have  much  to  say  to  him  in  any  way," 
replied  Matthew,  “ for  I know  very  well  that  if 
we  ever  do  get  into  a regular  quarrel,  there’ll  be 
a hard  time  of  it.  The  same  house  will  not  hold 


94  TEN  nights  in  a bar-room . 

us  afterward — that’s  certain.  So  I steer  clear  o i 
the  young  reprobate.” 

“ I wonder  his  father  don’t  put  him  to  some 
business,”  was  remarked.  “ The  idle  life  he  now 
leads  will  be  his  ruin.” 

“ He  was  behind  the  bar  for  a year  or  two.” 
“Yes;  and  was  smart  at  mixing  a glass — 
but ” 

“ Was  himself  becoming  too  good  a cus- 
tomer? ” 

“ Precisely.  He  got  drunk  as  a fool  before 
reaching  his  fifteenth  year.” 

“Good  gracious!”  I exclaimed,  involuntarily. 
“ It’s  true,  sir,”  said  the  last  speaker,  turning 
to  me,  “ I never  saw  anything  like  it.  And  this 
wasn’t  all  bar-room  talk,  which,  as  you  may  know, 
isn’t  the  most  refined  and  virtuous  in  the  world. 
I wouldn’t  like  my  son  to  hear  much  of  it.  Frank 
was  always  an  eager  listener  to  everything  that 
was  said,  and  in  a very  short  time  became  an 
adept  in  slang  and  profanity.  I’m  no  saint  my- 
self; but  it’s  often  made  my  blood  run  cold  to 
hear  him  swear.” 

“ I pity  his  mother,”  said  I ; for  my  thought 
turned  naturally  to  Mrs.  Slade. 

“ You  may  well  do  that,”  was  answered.  “ I 
doubt  if  Cedarville  holds  a sadder  heart.  It  was 
a dark  day  for  her,  let  me  tell  you,  when  Simon 
Slade  sold  his  mill  and  built  this  tavern.  She 
was  opposed  to  it  in  the  beginning.” 

“ I have  inferred  as  much.” 

“ I know  it,”  said  the  man.  “ My  wife  has  been 
intimate  with  her  for  years.  Indeed,  they  have 
always  been  like  sisters.  I remember  very  well 
her  coming  to  our  house,  about  the  time  the  mill 
was  sold,  and  crying  about  it  as  if  her  heart  would 
break.  She  saw  nothing  but  trouble  and  sorrow 
ahead.  Tavern-keeping  she  had  always  regarded 


NIGHT  THE  FIFTH.  93 

as  a low  business;  and  the  change  from  a respecta- 
ble miller  to  a lazy  tavern-keeper,  as  she  ex- 
pressed it,  was  presented  to  her  mind  as  some- 
thing disgraceful.  I remember,  very  well,  trying 
to  argue  the  point  with  her — assuming  that  it  was 
quite  as  respectable  to  keep  tavern  as  to  do  any- 
thing else;  but  I might  as  well  have  talked  to  the 
wind.  She  was  always  a pleasant,  hopeful,  cheer- 
ful woman  before  that  time;  but,  really,  I don't 
think  I've  seen  a true  smile  on  her  face  since.” 

“ That  was  a great  deal  for  a man  to  lose,” 
said  I. 

“What?”  he  inquired,  not  clearly  understand- 
ing me. 

“ The  cheerful  face  of  his  wife.” 

“ The  face  was  but  an  index  of  her  heart,”  said 
he. 

“ So  much  the  worse.” 

“True  enough  for  that.  Yes,  it  was  a great 
deal  to  lose.” 

“ What  has  he  gained  that  will  make  up  for 
this?” 

The  man  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

“ What  has  he  gained?  ” I repeated.  “ Can  you 
figure  it  up?” 

“ He's  a richer  man,  for  one  thing.” 

“ Happier?  ” 

There  was  another  shrug  of  the  shoulders.  “ I 
wouldn't  like  to  say  that.” 

“ How  much  richer?  ” 

“ Oh,  a great  deal.  Somebody  was  saying,  only 
yesterday,  that  he  couldn't  be  worth  less  than 
thirty  thousand  dollars.” 

“ Indeed?  So  much.” 

“ Yes.” 

“ How  has  he  managed  to  accumulate  so  rap- 
idly?” 


TEN  NIGHTS  IN  A BAR-ROOM. 


96 

“ His  bar  has  a large  run  of  custom.  And,  you 
know,  that  pays  wonderfully/’ 

“ He  must  have  sold  a great  deal  of  liquor  in 
six  years.” 

“ And  he  has.  I don’t  think  I’m  wrong  in  say- 
ing that  in  the  six  years  which  have  gone  by  'since 
the  ‘ Sickle  and  Sheaf  ’ was  opened,  more  liquor 
has  been  drank  than  in  the  previous  twenty 
years.” 

“ Say  forty,”  remarked  a man  who  had  been 
a listener  to  what  we  said. 

“ Let  it  be  forty,  then,”  was  the  according  an  - 
swer. 

“ How  conies  this?”  I inquired.  “ You  had  a 
tavern  here  before  the  Sickle  and  Sheaf  was 
opened.” 

“ I know  we  had,  and  several  places  besides, 
where  liquor  was  sold.  But,  everybody  far  and 
near  knew  Simon  Slade  the  miller,  and  every- 
body liked  him.  He  was  a good  miller,  and  a 
cheerful,  social,  chatty  sort  of  man,  putting  every- 
body in  a good  humor  who  came  near  him.  So 
it  became  the  talk  everywhere,  when  he  built  this 
house,  which  he  fitted  up  nicer  than  anything  that 
had  been  seen  in  these  parts.  Judge  Hammond, 
Judge  Lyman,  Lawyer  Wilson,  and  all  the  big- 
bugs  of  the  place  at  once  patronized  the  new  tav- 
ern; and,  of  course,  everybody  else  did  the  same. 
So,  you  can  easily  see  how  he  got  such  a run.” 

“ It  was  thought,  in  the  beginning,”  said  I, 
“ that  the  new  tavern  was  going  to  do  wonders 
for  Cedarville.” 

Yes,”  answered  the  man  laughing,  “ and  so 
it  has.” 

In  what  respect?  ” 

“ Oh,  in  many.  It  has  made  some  men  richer, 
-and  some  poorer.” 

“ Who  has  it  made  poorer?  ” 


NIGHT  THE  FIFTH . 


97 

“ Dozens  of  people.  You  may  always  take  it 
for  granted,  when  you  see  a tavern-keeper  who 
has  a good  run  at  his  bar,  getting  rich,  that  a 
great  many  people  are  getting  poor." 

“ How  so  ? ” I wished  to  hear  in  what  way  the 
man,  who  was  himself,  as  was  plain  to  see,  a 
good  customer  at  somebody’s  bar,  reasoned  on 
the  subject. 

“ He  does  not  add  to  the  general  wealth.  He 
produces  nothing.  He  takes  money  from  his 
customers,  but  gives  them  no  article  of  value  in 
return — nothing  that  can  be  called  property,  per- 
sonal or  real.  He  is  just  so  much  richer  and  they 
just  so  much  poorer  for  the  exchange.  Is  it  not 
so?" 

I readily  assented  to  the  position  as  true,  and 
then  said — 

“ Who,  in  particular,  is  poorer?" 

“ Judge  Hammond,  for  one." 

“Indeed!  I thought  the  advance  in  his  prop- 
erty, in  consequence  of  the  building  of  this  tav- 
ern, was  so  great,  that  he  was  reaping  a rich  pe- 
cuniary harvest." 

“ There  was  a slight  advance  in  property  along 
the  street  after  the  Sickle  and  Sheaf  was  opened, 
and  Judge  Hammond  was  benefited  thereby.  In- 
terested parties  made  a good  deal  of  noise  about 
it;  but  it  didn’t  amount  to  much,  I believe." 

“ What  has  caused  the  judge  to  grow  poorer? " 

“ The  opening  of  this  tavern,  as  I just  said." 

“ In  what  way  did  it  affect  him?  " 

“ He  was  among  Slade’s  warmest  supporters, 
as  soon  as  he  felt  the  advance  in  the  price  of  build- 
ing lots,  called  him  one  of  the  most  enterprising 
men  in  Cedarville — a real  benefactor  to  the  place 
— and  all  that  stuff.  To  set  a good  example  of 
patronage,  he  came  over  every  day  and  took  his 
glass  of  brandy,  and  encouraged  everybody  else 


98  TEN  NIGHTS  IN  A BAR-ROOM . 

that  he  could  influence  to  do  the  same.  Among 
those  who  followed  his  example  was  his  son 
Willy.  There  was  not,  let  me  tell  you,  in  all  the 
country  for  twenty  miles  around,  a finer  young 
man  than  Willy,  nor  one  of  so  much  promise, 
when  this  man-trap  ” — he  let  his  voice  fall,  and 
glanced  around,  as  he  thus  designated  Slade's 
tavern — “ was  opened;  and  now,  there  is  not  one 
dashing  more  recklessly  along  the  road  to  ruin. 
When  too  late,  his  father  saw  that  his  son  was 
corrupted,  and  that  the  company  he  kept  was  of 
a dangerous  character.  Two  reasons  led  him  to 
purchase  Slade’s  old  mill,  and  turn  it  into  a factory 
and  a distillery.  Of  course,  he  had  to  make  a 
heavy  outlay  for  additional  buildings,  machinery, 
and  distilling  apparatus.  The  reasons  influencing 
him  were  the  prospect  of  realizing  a large  amount 
of  money,  especially  in  distilling,  and  the  hope 
of  saving  Willy,  by  getting  him  closely  engaged 
and  interested  in  business.  To  accomplish,  more 
certainly,  the  latter  end,  he  unwisely  transferred 
to  his  son,  as  his  own  capital,  twenty  thousand 
dollars,  and  then  formed  with  him  a regular  co- 
partnership— giving  Willy  an  active  bsiness  con- 
trol. 

“ But  the  experiment,  sir,”  added  the  man,  em- 
phatically, “ has  proved  a failure.  I heard  yes- 
terday, that  both  mill  and  distillery  were  to  be 
shut  up,  and  offered  for  sale.” 

“ They  did  not  prove  as  money-making  as  was 
anticipated?” 

“ No,  not  under  Willy  Hammond’s  manage- 
ment. He  had  made  too  many  bad  acquaintances 
— men  who  clung  to  him  because  he  had  plenty 
of  money  at  his  command,  and  spent  it  as  freely 
as  water.  One-half  of  his  time  he  was  away  from 
the  mill,  and  while  there,  didn’t  half  attend  to 
business.  I’ve  heard  it  said — and  I don’t  much 


NIGHT  THE  FIFTH. 


99 

doubt  its  truth — that  he’s  squandered  his  twenty 
thousand  dollars,  and  a great  deal  more  besides.” 

“How  is  that  possible?” 

“Well;  people  talk,  and  not  always  at  random. 
There’s  been  a man  staying  here,  most  of  his  time, 
for  the  last  four  or  five  years,  named  Green.  He 
doesn’t  do  any  thing,  and  doesn’t  seem  to  have 
any  friends  in  the  neighborhood.  Nobody  knows 
where  he  came  from,  and  he  is  not  at  all  com- 
municative on  that  head  himself.  Well,  this  man 
became  acquainted  with  young  Hammond  after 
Willy  got  to  visiting  the  bar  heie,  and  attached 
himself  to  him  at  once.  They  have,  to  all  appear- 
ance, been  fast  friends  ever  since;  riding  about,  or 
going  off  on  gunning  or  fishing  excursions  almost 
every  day,  and  secluding  themselves  somewhere 
nearly  every  evening.  That  man  Green,  sir,  it  is 
whispered,  is  a gambler;  and  I believe  it.  Grant- 
ed, and  there  is  no  longer  a mystery  as  to  what 
Willy  does  with  his  own  and  his  father’s  money.” 

I readily  assented  to  this  view  of  the  case. 

“ And  so,  assuming  that  Green  is  a gambler,” 
said  I,  “ he  has  grown  richer,  in  consequence  of 
the  opening  of  a new  and  more  attractive  tavern 
in  Cedarville.” 

“ Yes,  and  Cedarville  is  so  much  the  poorer 
for  all  his  gains;  for  I’ve  never  heard  of  his  buy- 
ing a foot  of  ground,  or  in  any  way  encouraging 
productive  industry.  He’s  only  a blood-sucker.” 

“ It  is  worse  than  the  mere  abstraction  of 
money,”  I remarked ; “ he  corrupts  his  victims,  at 
the  same  time  that  he  robs  them.” 

“ True.” 

“ Willy  Hammond  may  not  be  his  only  victim,” 
I suggested. 

“ Nor  is  he,  in  my  opinion.  I’ve  been  coming 
to  this  bar,  nightly,  for  a good  many  years — a 
sorry  confession  for  a man  to  make,  I must  own,” 


100  TEN  nights  in  a bar-room. 

he  added,  with  a slight  tinge  of  shame;  “ but  so  it 
is.  Well,  as  I was  saying,  I’ve  been  coming  to 
this  bar,  nightly,  for  a good  many  years,  and  I 
generally  see  all  that  is  going  on  around  me. 
Among  the  regular  visitors  are  at  least  half  a 
dozen  young  men,  belonging  to  our  best  families 
— who  have  been  raised  with  care,  and  well  edu- 
cated. That  their  presence  here  is  unknown  to 
their  friends,  I am  quite  certain — or,  at  least,  un- 
known and  unsuspected  by  some  of  them.  They 
do  not  drink  a great  deal  yet;  but  all  try  a glass 
or  two.  Toward  nine  o’clock,  often  at  an  earlier 
hour,  you  will  see  one  and  another  of  them  go 
quietly  out  of  the  bar,  through  the  sitting-room, 
preceded,  or  soon  followed,  by  Green  and  Slade. 
At  any  hour  of  the  night,  up  to  one  or  two,  and 
sometimes  three  o’clock,  you  can  see  light  stream- 
ing through  the  rent  in  a curtain  drawn  before  a 
particular  window,  which  I know  to  be  in  the 
room  of  Harvey  Green.  These  are  facts,  sir;  and 
you  can  draw  your  own  conclusion.  I think  it  a 
very  serious  matter.” 

“ Why  does  Slade  go  out  with  these  young 
men?”  I inquired.  “ Do  you  think  he  gambles 
also?  ” 

“ If  he  isn’t  a kind  of  a stool-pigeon  for  Har- 
vey Green,  then  I’m  mistaken  again.” 

“ Hardly.  He  cannot,  already,  have  become 
so  utterly  unprincipled.” 

“ It’s  a bad  school,  sir,  this  tavern-keeping,” 
said  the  man. 

“ I readily  grant  you  that.” 

“ And  it’s  nearly  seven  years  since  he  com- 
menced to  take  lessons.  A great  deal  may  be 
learned,  sir,  of  good  or  evil,  in  seven  years,  es- 
pecially if  any  interest  be  taken  in  the  studies.” 

“ True.” 

“ And  it’s  true  In  this  case,  you  may  depend 


NIGHT  THE  FIFTH.  101  v 

upon  it.  Simon  Slade  is  not  the  man  he  was, 
seven  years  ago.  Anybody  with  half  an  eye  can 
see  that.  He’s  grown  selfish,  grasping,  unscru- 
pulous, and  passionate.  There  could  hardly  be 
a greater  difference  between  men  than  exists  be- 
tween Simon  Slade  the  tavern-keeper,  and  Simon 
Slade  the  miller.” 

‘‘And  intemperate,  also?”  I suggested. 

“ He’s  beginning  to  take  a little  too  much,” 
was  answered. 

“ In  that  case,  he’ll  scarcely  be  as  well  off  five 
years  hence  as  he  is  now.” 

“ He’s  at  the  top  of  the  wheel,  some  of  us 
think.” 

“ What  has  led  to  this  opinion?  ” 

“ He’s  beginning  to  neglect  his  house,  for  one 
thing.” 

“ A bad  sign.” 

“ And  there  is  another  sign.  Heretofore,  he 
has  always  been  on  hand,  with  the  cash,  when 
desirable  property  went  off,  under  forced  sale,  at 
a bargain.  In  the  last  three  or  four  months,  sev 
eral  great  sacrifices  have  been  made,  but  Simon 
Slade  showed  no  inclination  to  buy.  Put  this 
fact  against  another, — week  before  last,  he  sold  a 
house  and  lot  in  the  town  for  five  hundred  dol- 
lars less  than  he  paid  for  them,  a year  ago — and 
for  just  that  sum  less  than  their  true  value.” 

“ How  came  that?  ” I inquired. 

“ Ah!  there’s  the  question!  He  wanted  money; 
though  for  what  purpose  he  has  not  intimated  to 
any  one,  as  far  as  I can  learn.” 

“ What  do  you  think  of  it?” 

“ Just  this.  He  and  Green  have  been  hunting 
together  in  times  past;  but  the  professed  gam- 
bler’s instincts  are  too  strong  to  let  him  spare 
even  his  friend  in  evil.  They  have  commenced 
playing  one  against  the  other.” 


102  TEN  nights  in  a bar-room. 

“ Ah!  you  think  so?” 

“ I do;  and  if  I conjecture  rightly,  Simon  Slade 
will  be  a poorer  man,  in  a year  from  this  time, 
than  he  is  now.” 

Here  our  conversation  was  interrupted.  Some 
one  asked  my  talkative  friend  to  go  and  take  a 
jrink,  and  he,  nothing  loath,  left  me  without  cere- 
mony. 

Very  differently  served  was  the  supper  I par- 
took of  on  that  evening,  from  the  one  set  before 
me  on  the  occasion  of  my  first  visit  to  the  “ Sickle 
and  Sheaf.”  The  table-cloth  was  not  merely 
soiled,  but  offensively  dirty;  the  plates,  cups,  and 
saucers,  dingy  and  sticky;  the  knives  and  forks 
unpolished;  and  the  food  of  a character  to  satisfy 
the  appetite  with  a very  few  mouthfuls.  Two 
greasy-looking  Irish  girls  waited  on  the  table,  at 
which  neither  landlord  nor  landlady  presided.  I 
was  really  hungry  when  the  supper  bell  rang; 
but  the  craving  of  my  stomach  soon  ceased  in 
the  atmosphere  of  the  dining-room,  and  I was 
the  first  to  leave  the  table. 

Soon  after  the  lamps  were  lighted,  company 
began  to  assemble  in  the  spacious  bar-room, 
where  were  comfortable  seats,  with  tables,  news- 
papers, backgammon  boards;  dominoes,  etc.  The 
first  act  of  nearly  every  one  who  came  in  was  to 
call  for  a glass  of  liquor;  and  sometimes  the  same 
individual  drank  two  or  three  times  in  the  course 
of  half  an  hour,  on  the  invitation  of  new  comers 
who  were  convivially  inclined. 

Most  of  those  who  came  in  were  strangers  to 
me.  I was  looking  from  face  to  face  to  see  if  any 
of  the  old  company  were  present,  when  one  coun- 
tenance struck  me  as  familiar.  I was  studying 
it,  in  order,  if  possible,  to  identify  the  person, 
when  some  one  addressed  him  as  “ Judge.” 

Changed  as  the  face  was,  I now  recognized  it 


NIGHT  THE  FIFTH. 


103 

as  that  of  Judge  Lyman.  Five  years  had  marred 
that  face  terribly.  It  seemed  twice  the  former 
size;  and  all  its  bright  expression  was  gone.  The 
thickened  and  protruding  eyelids  half  closed  the 
leaden  eyes,  and  the  swollen  lips  and  cheeks  gave 
to  his  countenance  a look  of  all-predominating 
sensuality.  True  manliness  had  bowed  itself  in 
debasing  submission  to  the  bestial.  He  talked 
loudly,  and  with  a pompous  dogmatism — mainly 
on  political  subjects — but  talked  only  from  mem- 
ory; for  any  one  could  see,  that  thought  came 
into  but  feeble  activity.  And  yet,  derationalized, 
so  to  speak,  as  he  was,  through  drink,  he  had 
been  chosen  a representative  in  Congress,  at  the 
previous  election,  on  the  anti-temperance  ticket, 
and  by  a very  handsome  majority.  He  was  the 
rum  candidate;  and  the  rum  interest,  aided  by  the 
easily  swayed  “ indifferents,”  swept  aside  the 
claims  of  law,  order,  temperance,  and  good  mor- 
als; and  the  district  from  which  he  was  chosen 
as  a National  Legislator  sent  him  up  to  the  Na- 
tional Councils,  and  said  in  the  act — “ Look  upon 
him  we  have  chosen  as  our  representative,  and 
see  in  him  a type  of  our  principles,  our  quality, 
and  our  condition  as  a community.” 

Judge  Lyman,  around  whom  a little  circle  soon 
gathered,  was  very  severe  on  the  temperance 
party,  which,  for  two  years,  had  opposed  his  elec- 
tion, and  which,  at  the  last  struggle,  showed  itself 
to  be  a rapidly  growing  organization.  During 
the  canvass,  a paper  was  published  by  this  party, 
in  which  his  personal  habits,  character,  and  moral 
principles  were  discussed  in  the  freest  manner,  and 
certainly  not  in  a way  to  elevate  him  in  the  esti- 
mation of  men  whose  opinion  was  of  any  value. 

It  was  not  much  to  be  wondered  at,  that  he 
assumed  to  think  temperance  issues  at  the  polls 
were  false  issues;  and  that  when  temperance  men 


104  TEX  EIGHTS  IX  A BAR-ROOM. 

sought  to  tamper  with  elections,  the  liberties  of 
the  people  were  in  danger;  nor  that  he  pronounced 
the  whole  body  of  temperance  men  as  selfish 
schemers  and  canting  hypocrites. 

“ The  next  thing  we  will  have/'  he  exclaimed, 
warming  with  his  theme,  and  speaking  so  loud 
that  his  voice  sounded  throughout  the  room,  and 
arrested  every  one’s  attention,  “ will  be  laws  to 
fine  any  man  who  takes  a chew  of  tobacco  or 
lights  a cigar.  Touch  the  liberties  of  the  people 
in  the  smallest  particular,  and  all  guarantees  are 
gone.  The  Stamp  Act,  against  which  our  noble 
forefathers  rebelled,  was  a light  measure  of  op- 
pression to  that  contemplated  by  these  worse  than 
fanatics.” 

“ You  are  right  there,  Judge;  right  for  once  in 
your  life,  if  you  (hie)  were  never  right  before!” 
exclaimed  a battered  looking  specimen  of  humani- 
ty, who  stood  near  the  speaker,  slapping  Judge 
Lyman  on  the  shoulder  familiarly  as  he  spoke. 
“ There’s  no  telling  what  they  will  do.  There’s 
(hie)  my  old  uncle  Josh  Wilson,  who’s  been 
keeper  of  the  Poor-house  these  ten  years.  Well, 
they’re  going  to  turn  him  out,  if  ever  they  get  the 
upper  hand  in  Bolton  county.” 

“ If?  That  word  involves  a great  deal,  Harry!  ” 
said  Lyman.  “ We  mus’n’t  let  them  get  the  upper 
hand.  Every  man  has  a duty  to  perform  to  his 
country  in  this  matter,  and  every  one  must  do  his 
duty.  But  what  have  they  got  against  your  Uncle 
Joshua?  What  has  he  been  doing  to  offend  this 
righteous  party?” 

“ They’ve  nothing  against  him,  (hie)  I believe. 
Only,  they  say,  they’re  not  going  to  have  a Poor- 
house  itv  the  county  at  all.” 

“ What!  Going  to  turn  the  poor  wretches  out 
to  starve?”  said  one. 

“ Oh,  no!  (hie),”  and  the  fellow  grinned,  half 


NIGHT  THE  FIFTH. 


105 

shrewdly  and  half  maliciously,  as  he  answered — 

“ no,  not  that.  But,  when  they  carry  the  day, 
there’ll  be  no  need  of  Poor-houses.  At  least,  that’s 
their  talk — and  I guess  maybe  there’s  something 
in  it,  for  I never  knew  a man  to  go  to  the  Poor- 
house  who  hadn’t  (hie)  rum  to  blame  for  his  pov- 
erty. But,  you  see,  I’m  interested  in  this  matter. 

I go  for  keeping  up  the  Poor-house  (hie) ; for  I 
guess  I’m  traveling  that  road,  and  I shouldn’t  like 
to  get  to  the  last  milestone  (hie)  and  find  no  snug 
quarters — no  Uncle  Josh.  You’re  safe  for  one 
vote,  anyhow,  old  chap,  on  next  election  day!” 
And  the  man’s  broad  hand  slapped  the  member’s 
shoulder  again.  “ Huzza  for  the  rummies!  That’s 
(hie)  the  ticket!  Harry  Grimes  never  deserts  his 
friends.  True  as  steel!  ” 

“ You’re  a trump!”  returned  Judge  Lyman, 
with  a low  familiarity.  “ Never  fear  about  the 
Poor-house  and  Uncle  Josh.  They’re  all  safe.” 

“ But  look  here,  judge,”  resumed  the  man.  “ It 
isn’t  only  the  Poor-house,  the  jail  is  to  go  next.”* 
“ Indeed!  ” 

“ Yes,  that’s  their  talk;  and  I guess  they  ain’t 
far  out  of  the  way  neither.  What  takes  men  to 
jail?  You  can  tell  us  something  about  that,  judge, 
for  you’ve  jugged  a good  many  in  your  time. 
Didn’t  pretty  much  all  of  ’em  drink  rum?  (hie)  ” 
But  the  judge  answered  nothing. 

“ Silence  (hie)  gives  consent,”  resumed  Grimes. 
“ And  they  say  more;  once  give  ’em  the  upper 
hand — and  they’re  confident  of  beating  us — and 
the  Court-house  will  be  to  let.  As  for  judges  and 
lawyers,  they’ll  starve,  or  go  into  some  better 
business.  So  you  see,  (hie)  judge,  your  liberties 
are  in  danger.  But  fight  hard,  old  fellow;  and  if 
you  must  die,  (hie)  die  game!  ” 

How  well  Judge  Lyman  relished  this  mode  of 
presenting  the  case,  was  not  very  apparent;  he 


106  TEN  NIGHTS  IN  A BAR-ROOM. 

A 

was  too  good  a politician  and  office-seeker  to 
show  any  feeling  on  the  subject,  and  thus  endan- 
ger a vote.  Harry  Grimes’  vote  counted  one,  and 
a single  vote  sometimes  gained  or  lost  an  elec- 
tion. 

“ One  of  their  gags,”  he  said,  laughing.  “ But 
I’m  too  old  a stager  not  to  see  the  flimsiness  of 
such  pretensions.  Poverty  and  crime  have  their 
origin  in  the  corrupt  heart,  and  their  foundations 
are  laid  long  and  long  before  the  first  step  is  taken 
on  the  road  to  inebriety.  It  is  easy  to  promise 
results;  for  only  the  few  look  at  causes,  and  trace 
them  to  their  effects.” 

“ Rum  and  ruin,  (hie).  Are  they  not  cause  and 
effect?”  asked  Grimes. 

“ Sometimes  they  are,”  was  the  half  extorted 
answer. 

“ Oh,  Green,  is  that  you?  ” exclaimed  the  judge, 
as  Harvey  Green  came  in  with  a soft  cat-like  step. 
He  was,  evidently,  glad  of  a chance  to  get  rid  of 
his  familiar  friend  and  elector. 

I turned  my  eyes  upon  the  man,  and  read  his 
face  closely.  It  was  unchanged.  The  same  cold, 
sinister  eye;  the  same  chiselled  mouth,  so  firm 
now,  and  now  yielding  so  elastically;  the  same 
smile  “ from  the  teeth  onward  ” — the  same  lines 
that  revealed  his  heart’s  deep,  dark  selfishness. 
If  he  had  indulged  in  drink  during  the  five  inter- 
vening years,  it  had  not  corrupted  his  blood,  nor 
added  thereto  a single  degree  of  heat. 

“ Have  you  seen  anything  of  Hammond  this 
evening?”  asked  Judge  Lyman. 

“ I saw  him  an  hour  or  two  ago,”  answered 
Green. 

“ How  does  he  like  his  new  horse?” 

“ He’s  delighted  with  him.” 

“ What  was  the  price?  ” 

“ Three  hundred  dollars.” 


NIGHT  THE  FIFTH. 


107 


“ Indeed! ” 

The  judge  had  already  arisen,  and  he  and  Green 
were  now  walking  side  by  side  across  the  bar- 
room floor. 

“ I want  to  speak  a word  with  you,”  I heard 
Lyman  say. 

And  then  the  two  went  out  together.  I saw  no 
more  of  them  during  the  evening. 

Not  long  afterward  Willy  Hammond  came  in. 
Ah!  there  was  a sad  change  here;  a change  that 
in  no  way  belied  the  words  of  Matthew  the  bar- 
keeper. He  went  up  to  the  bar,  and  I heard  him 
ask  for  Judge  Lyman.  The  answer  was  in  so  low 
a voice  that  it  did  not  reach  my  ear. 

With  a quick,  nervous  motion,  Hammond  threw 
his  hand  toward  a row  of  decanters  on  the  shelf 
behind  the  bar-keeper,  who  immediately  set  one 
of  them  containing  brandy  before  him.  From  this 
he  poured  a tumbler  half  full,  and  drank  it  off  at  a 
single  draught,  unmixed  with  water. 

He  then  asked  some  further  question,  which  I 
could  not  hear,  manifesting,  as  it  appeared,  con- 
siderable excitement  of  mind.  In  answering  him, 
Matthew  glanced  his  eyes  upward,  as  if  indicating 
some  room  in  the  house.  The  young  man  then 
retired,  hurriedly,  through  the  sitting-room. 

“ What's  the  matter  with  Willy  Hammond  to- 
night? ” asked  some  one  of  the  bar-keeper. 
Who's  he  after  in  such  a hurry?” 

“ He  wants  to  see  Judge  Lyman,”  replied  Mat- 
thew. 

“ Oh!” 

“ I guess  they're  after  no  good,”  was  remarked. 

“ Not  much,  I’m  afraid.” 

Two  young  men,  well  dressed,  and  with  faces 
marked  by  intelligence,  came  in  at  the  moment, 
drank  at  the  bar,  chatted  a little  while  familiarly 
with  the  barkeeper,  and  then  quietly  disappeared 


108  ^ TEN  nights  in  a bar-room. 

through  the  door  leading  into  the  sitting-room. 
I met  the  eyes  of  the  man  with  whom  I talked 
during  the  afternoon,  and  his  knowing  wink 
brought  to  mind  his  suggestion,  that  in  one  of 
the  upper  ropms  gambling  went  on  nightly,  and 
that  some  of  the  most  promising  young  men  of 
the  town  had  been  drawn,  through  the  bar  attrac- 
tion, into  this  vortex  of  ruin.  I felt  a shudder 
creeping  along  my  nerves. 

The  conversation  that  now  went  on  among  the 
company  was  of  such  an  obscene  and  profane 
character  that,  in  disgust,  I went  out.  The  night 
was  clear,  the  air  soft,  and  the  moon  shining  down 
brightly.  I walked  for  some  time  in  the  porch, 
musing  on  what  I had  seen  and  heard;  while  a 
constant  stream  of  visitors  came  pouring  into  the 
bar-room.  Only  a few  of  these  remained.  The 
larger  portion  went  in  quickly,  took  their  glass, 
and  then  left,  as  if  to  avoid  observation  as  much 
as  possible. 

Soon  after  I commenced  walking  in  the  porch, 
I noticed  an  elderly  lady  go  slowly  by,  who,  in 
passing,  slightly  paused,  and  evidently  tried  to 
look  through  the  bar-room  door.  The  pause  was 
but  for  an  instant.  In  less  than  ten  minutes  she 
came  back,  again  stopped — this  time  longer — and 
again  moved  off  slowly,  until  she  passed  out  of 
sight.  I was  yet  thinking  about  her,  when,  on 
lifting  my  eyes  from  the  ground,  she  was  advanc- 
ing along  the  road,  but  a few  rods  distant.  I 
almost  started  at  seeing  her,  for  there  no  longer 
remained  a doubt  on  my  mind,  that  she  was  some 
trembling,  heartsick  mother,  in  search  of  an  err- 
ing son,  whose  feet  were  in  dangerous  paths.  See- 
ing me,  she  kept  on,  though  lingeringly.  She  went 
but  a short  distance  before  returning;  and  this 
time,  she  moved  in  closer  to  the  house,  and 
reached  a position  that  enabled  her  eyes  to  range 


NIGHT  THE  FIFTH . 


109 

through  a large  portion  of  the  bar-room.  A nearer 
inspection  appeared  to  satisfy  her.  She  retired 
with  quicker  steps;  and  did  not  again  return  dur- 
ing the  evening. 

Ah!  what  a commentary  upon  the  uses  of  an 
attractive  tavern  was  here!  My  heart  ached,  as  I 
thought  of  all  that  unknown  mother  had  suffered; 
and,  was  doomed  to  suffer.  I could  not  shut  out 
the  image  of  her  drooping  form  as  I lay  upon  my 
pillow  that  night;  she  even  haunted  me  in  my 
dreams. 


110 


TEN  NIGHTS  IN  A BAR-ROOM. 


NIGHT  THE  SIXTH. 

MORE  CONSEQUENCES. 

The  landlord  did  not  make  his  appearance  on 
the  next  morning  until  nearly  ten  o'clock;  and 
then  he  looked  like  a man  who  had  been  on  a de- 
bauch. It  was  eleven  before  Harvey  Green  came 
down.  Nothing  about  him  indicated  the  smallest 
deviation  from  the  most  orderly  habit.  Clean 
shaved,  with  fresh  linen,  and  a face,  every  line  of 
which  was  smoothed  into  calmness,  he  looked  as  if 
he  had  slept  soundly  on  a quiet  conscience,  and 
now  hailed  the  new  day  with  a tranquil  spirit. 

The  first  act  of  Slade  was  to  go  behind  the  bar 
and  take  a stiff  glass  of  brandy  and  water;  the  first 
act  of  Green,  to  order  beefsteak  and  coffee  for 
his  breakfast.  I noticed  the  meeting  between  the 
two  men,  on  the  appearance  of  Green.  There  was 
a slight  reserve  on  the  part  of  Green,  and  an  un- 
easy embarrassment  on  the  part  of  Slade.  Not 
even  the  ghost  of  a smile  was  visible  in  either 
countenance.  They  spoke  a few  words  together, 
and  then  separated  as  if  from  a sphere  of  mutual 
repulsion.  I did  not  observe  them  again  in  com- 
pany during  the  day. 

“ There's  trouble  over  at  the  mill,"  was  re- 
marked by  a gentleman  with  whom  I had  some 
business  transactions  in  the  afternoon.  He  spoke 
to  a person  who  sat  in  his  office. 

“ Ah!  what's  the  matter?  " said  the  other. 

“ All  the  hands  were  discharged  at  noon,  and 
the  mill  shut  down." 


NIGHT  THE  SIXTH. 


Ill 


“ How  comes  that?  ” 

“ They’ve  been  losing  money  from  the  start.” 
“ Rather  bad  practice,'  I should  say.” 

“ It  involves  some  bad  practices,  no  doubt.” 

“ On  Willy’s  part?  ” 

“ Yes.  He  is  reported  to  have  squandered  the 
means  placed  in  his  hands,  after  a shameless 
fashion.” 

“ Is  the  loss  heavy?  ” 

“ So  it  is  said.” 

“ How  much?”  > 

u Reaching  to  thirty  or  forty  thousand  dollars. 
But  this  is  rumor,  and,  of  course,  an  exaggera- 
tion.” 

“ Of  course.  No  such  loss  as  that  could  have 
been  made.  But  what  was  done  with  the  money? 
How  could  Willy  have  spent  it?  He  dashes  about 
a great  deal ; buys  fast  horses,  drinks  rather  freely, 
and  all  that;  but  thirty  or  forty  thousand  dollars 
couldn’t  escape  in  this  way.” 

At  the  moment  a swift  trotting  horse,  bearing  a 
light  sulky  and  a man,  went  by. 

“ There  goes  young  Hammond’s  three  hundred 
dollar  animal,”  said  the  last  speaker. 

“ It  was  Willy  Hammond’s  yesterday.  But  there 
has  been  a change  of  ownership  since  then;  I 
happen  to  know.” 

“ Indeed!” 

• “ Yes.  The  man  Green,  who  has  been  loafing 

about  Cedarville  for  the  last  few  years — after  no 
good,  I can  well  believe — came  into  possession 
to-day.” 

“ Ah!  Willy  must  be  very  fickle-minded.  Does 
the  possession  of  a coveted  object  so  soon  bring 
satiety?  ” 

“ There  is  something  not  clearly  understood 
about  the  transaction.  I saw  Mr.  Hammond  dur- 


112  TEN  NIGHTS  IN  A BAR-ROOM. 

ing  the  forenoon,  and  he  looked  terribly  dis- 
tressed." 

“ The  embarrassed  condition  of  things  at  the 
mill  readily  accounts  for  this." 

u True;  but  I think  there  are  causes  of  trouble 
beyond  the  mere  embarrassments." 

“ The  dissolute,  spendthrift  habits  of  his  son," 
was  suggested.  “ These  are  sufficient  to  weigh 
down  the  father's  spirits. — to  bow  him  to  the  very 
dust." 

“ To  speak  out  plainly,"  said  the  other,  “ I am 
afraid  that  the  young  man  adds  another  vice  to 
that  of  drinking  and  idleness." 

“ What?" 

“ Gaming. " 

“ No!  " 

“ There  is  little  doubt  of  it  in  my  mind.  And 
it  is  further  my  opinion,  that  his  fine  horse,  for 
which  he  paid  three  hundred  dollars  only  a fewT 
days  ago,  has  passed  into  the  hands  of  this  man 
Green,  in  payment  of  a debt  contracted  at  the 
gaming  table." 

“ You  shock  me.  Surely,  there  can  be  no 
grounds  for  such  a belief." 

“ I have,  I am  sorry  to  say,  the  gravest  reasons 
for  what  I allege.  That  Green  is  a professional 
gambler,  who  was  attracted  here  by  the  excellent 
company  that  assembled  at  the  ‘ Sickle  and  Sheaf  ' 
in  the  beginning  of  the  lazy  miller's  pauper-mak- 
ing experiment,  I do  not  in  the  least  question. 
Grant  this,  and  take  into  account  the  fact  that 
young  Hammond  has  been  much  in  his  company, 
and  you  have  sufficient  cause  for  the  most  dis- 
astrous effects." 

“ If  this  be  really  so,"  observed  the  gentleman, 
over  whose  face  a shadow  of  concern  darkened, 
“ then  Willy  Hammond  may  not  be  his  onlv  vic- 
tim." # 


NIGHT  THE  SIXTH.  . 


113 

“ And  is  not,  you  may  rest  assured.  If  rumor 
be  true,  other  of  our  promising  young  men  are 
being  drawn  into  the  whirling  circles  that  narrow 
toward  a vortex  of  ruin." 

In  corroboration  of  this,  I mentioned  the  con- 
versation I had  held  with  one  of  the  frequenters 
of  Slade's  bar-room,  on  this  very  subject;  and  also 
what  I had  myself  observed  on  the  previous  even- 
ing. 

The  man,  who  had  until  now  been  sitting  quiet- 
ly in  a chair,  started  up,  exclaiming  as  he  did  so — 

“ Merciful  heaven!  I never  dreamed  oW this ! 
Whose  sons  are  safe?" 

“ No  man's,"  was  the  answer  of  the  gentleman 
in  whose  office  we  were  sitting — “ No  man's — 
while  there  are  such  open  doors  to  ruin  as  you 
may  find  at  the  ‘ Sickle  and  Sheaf.'  Did  not  you 
vote  the  anti-temperance  ticket  at  the  last  elec- 
tion? " 

“ I did,"  was  the  answer;  “ and  from  principle." 

“On  what  were  your  principles  based?"  was 

inquired. 

“ On  the  broad  foundations  of  civil  liberty." 

“ The  liberty  to  do  good  or  evil,  just  as  the  in- 
dividual may  choose?" 

“ I would  not  like  to  say  that.  There  are  cer- 
tain evils  against  which  there  can  be  no  legisla- 
tion that  would  not  do  harm.  No  civil  power  in 
this  country  has  the  right  to  say  what  a citizen 
shall  eat  or  drink." 

“ But  may  not  the  people,  in  any  community, 
pass  laws,  through  their  delegated  law-makers, 
restraining  evil-minded  persons  from  injuring  the 
common  good?" 

“ Oh,  certainly — certainly." 

“ And  are  you  prepared  to  affirm,  that  a drink- 
ing-shop,  where  young  men  are  corrupted,  aye, 


114  TEN  NIGHTS  IN  A BAR-ROOM. 

destroyed,  body  and  soul — does  not  work  an  in- 
jury to  the  common  good?” 

“ Ah!  but  there  must  be  houses  of  public  enter- 
tainment.” 

“ No  one  denies  this.  But  can  that  be  a really 
Christian  comfriunity  which  provides  for  the  moral 
debasements  of  strangers,  at  the  same  time  that 
it  entertains  them?  It  is  necessary  that  in  giving 
rest  and  entertainment  to  the  traveler,  we  also 
lead  him  into  temptation?” 

“ Yes — but — but — it  is  going  too  far  to  legis- 
late on  what  we  are  to  eat  and  drink.  It  is  open- 
ing too  wide  a door  for  fanatical  oppression.  We 
must  inculcate  temperance  as  a right  principle. 
We  must  teach  om  children  the  evils  of  intemper- 
ance, and  send  them  out  into  the  world  as  prac- 
tical teachers  of  order,  virtue,  and  sobriety.  If 
we  do  this,  the  reform  becomes  radical,  and  in  a 
few  years  there  will  be  no  bar-rooms,  for  none 
will  crave  the  fiery  poison.”  , . 

“ Of  iittie  value,  my  friend,  will  be,  in  far  too 
many  cases,  your  precepts,  if  temptation  invites 
our  sons  at  almost  every  step  of  their  way  through 
life.  Thousands  have  fallen,  and  thousands  are 
now  tottering,  soon  to  fall.  Your  sons  are  not 
safe;  nor  are  mine.  We  cannot  tell  the  day  nor 
the  hour  when  they  may  weakly  yield  to  the  solici- 
tation of  some  companion,  and  enter  the  wide- 
open  door  of  ruin.  And  are  we  wise  and  good 
citizens  to  commission  men  to  do  the  evil  work 
of  enticement?  To  encourage  them  to  get  gain  in 
corrupting  and  destro}dng  our  children?  To  hesi- 
tate over  some  vague  ideal  of  human  liberty  when 
the  sword  is  among  us,  slaying  our  best  and  dear- 
est? Sir!  while  you  hold  back  from  the  work  of 
staying  the  flood  that  is  desolating  our  fairest 
homes,  the  black  waters  are  approaching  your 
own  doors.” 


NIGHT  THE  SIXTH.  115 

There  was  a startling  emphasis  in  the  tones 
with  which  this  last  sentence  was  uttered;  and  I 
did  not  wonder  at  the  look  of  anxious  alarm  that 
it  called  to  the  face  of  him  whose  fears  it  was 
meant  to  excite. 

“ What  do  you  mean,  sir?  ” was  inquired. 

“ Simply,  that  your  sons  are  in  equal  danger 
with  others.” 

“ And  is  that  all?  ” 

“ They  have  been  seen,  of  late,  in  the  bar-room 
of  the  ‘ Sickle  and  Sheaf.'  ” 

“ Who  says  so?  ” 

“ Twice  within  a week  I have  seen  them  going 
in  there,"  was  answered. 

“Good  heavens!  No!” 

“ It  is  true,  my  friend.  But  who  is  safe?  If  we 
dig  pits,  and  conceal  them  from  view,  what  mar- 
vel if  our  own  children  fall  therein?” 

“My  sons  going  to'  a tavern?”  The  man 
seemed  utterly  confounded.  “ How  can  I believe 
it?  You  must  be  in  error,  sir.” 

“ No.  What  I tell  you  is  the  simple  truth.  And 
if  they  go  there ” 

The  man  paused  not  to  hear  the  conclusion  of 
the  sentence,  but  went  hastily  from  the  office. 

“ We  are  beginning  to  reap  as  we  have  sown,” 
remarked  the  gentleman,  turning  to  me  as  his 
agitated  friend  left  the  office.  “ As  I told  them  in 
the  commencement  it  would  be,  so  it  is  happening. 
The  w^ant  of  a good  tavern  in  Cedarville  was  over 
and  over  again  alleged  as  one  of  the  chief  causes 
of  our  want  of  thrift,  and  when  Slade  opened  the 
‘ Sickle  and  Sheaf,'  the  man  was  almost  glorified. 
The  gentleman  who  has  just  left  us  failed  not  in 
laudation  of  the  enterprising  landlord;  the  more 
particularly,  as  the  building  of  the  new  tavern 
advanced  the  price  of  ground  on  the  street,  and 
made  him  a few  hundred  dollars  richer.  Really, 


116  TEN  NIGHTS  IN  A BAR-ROOM. 

for  a time,  one  might  have  thought,  from  the  way 
people  went  on,  that  Simon  Slade  was  going  to 
make  every  man’s  fortune  in  Cedarvillc.  But  all 
that  has  been  gained  by  a small  advance  in  prop- 
erty, is  as  a grain  of  sand  to  a mountain,  compared 
with  the  fearful  demoralization  that  has  followed/’ 

I readily  assented  to  this,  for  I had  myself  seen 
enough  to  justify  the  conclusion. 

As  I sat  in  the  bar-room  of  the  “ Sickle  and 
Sheaf  ” that  evening,  I noticed,  soon  after  the 
lamps  were  lighted,  the  gentleman  referred  to  in 
the  above  conversation,  whose  sons  were  repre- 
sented as  visitors  to  the  bar,  come  in  quietly,  and 
look  anxiously  about  the  room.  He  spoke  to  no 
one,  and,  afte?  satisfying  himself  that  those  he 
sought  were  not  there,  went  out. 

“ What  sent  him  here,  I wonder?  ” muttered 
Slade,  speaking  partly  to  himself,  and  partly  aside 
to  Matthew,  the  bar-keeper. 

“After  the  boys,  I suppose/’  was  answered. 

“ I guess  the  boys  are  old  enough  to  take  care 
of  themselves/’ 

“ They  ought  to  be,”  returned  Matthew. 

“ And  are,”  said  Slade.  “ Have  they  been  here 
this  evening?  ” 

“ No,  not  yet.” 

“While  they  yet  talked  together,  two  young 
men  whom  I had  seen  on  the  night  before,  and 
noticed  particularly  as  showing  signs  of  intelli- 
gence and  respectability  beyond  the  ordinary  vis- 
itors at  a bar-room,  came  in. 

“ John,”  I heard  Slade  say,  in  a low,  confidential 
voice,  to  one  of  them,  “ your  old  man  was  here 
just  now.”  * 

“No!”  The  young  man  looked  startled — al- 
most confounded. 

“ It’s  a fact.  So  you’d  better  keep  shady,” 

“ What  did  he  want?  ” 


NIGHT  THE  SIXTH. 


117 


“ I don’t  know/’ 

“ What  did  he  say?” 

“ Nothing.  He  just  came  in,  looked  around, 
and  then  went  out.” 

“ His  face  was  as  dark  as  a thundercloud,”  re- 
marked Matthew. 

“'Is  No.  4 vacant?”  inquired  one  of  the  young 
men. 

“ Yes.” 

“ Send  us  up  a bottle  of  wine  and  some  cigars. 
And  when  Bill  Harding  and  Harry  Lee  come  in, 
tell  them  where  they  can  find  us.” 

“ All  right,”  said  Matthew.  “ And  now,  take  a 
friend’s  advice,  and  make  yourselves  scarce.” 

The  young  men  left  the  room  hastily.  Scarcely 
had  they  departed,  ere  I saw  the  same  gentleman 
come  in,  whose  anxious  face  had,  a little  while 
before,  thrown  its  shadow  over  the  apartment.  He 
was  the  father  in  search  of  his  sons.  Again  he 
glanced  around,  nervously;  and  this  time  appeared 
to  be  disappointed.  As  he  entered,  Slade  went 
out. 

“ Have  John  and  Wilson  been  here  this  even- 
ing? ” he  asked,  coming  up  to  the  bar  and  address- 
ing Matthew. 

“They  are  not  here,”  replied  Matthew,  eva- 
sively. 

“ But  haven’t  they  been  here?  ” 

“ They  may  have  been  here ; I only  came  in 
from  my  supper  a little  while  ago.” 

“ I thought  I saw  them  entering,  only  a mo- 
ment or  two  ago.” 

“ They’re  not  here,  sir.”  Matthew  shook  his 
head  and  spoke  firmly. 

“Where  is  Mr.  Slade?” 

“ In  the  house,  somewhere.” 

“ I wish  you  would  ask  him  to  step  here.” 
Matthew  went  out,  but  in  a little  while  came 


118  ten  nights  in  a bar-room. 

back  with  word  that  the  landlord  was  not  to  be 
found. 

“ You  are  sure  the  boys  are  not  here?  ” said  the 
mak,  with  a doubting,  dissatisfied  manner. 

“ See  for  yourself,  Mr.  Harrison!  ” 

“ Perhaps  they  are  in  the  parlor?  ” 

“ Step  in,  sir/’  coolly  returned  Matthew.  The 
man  went  through  the  door  into  the  sitting-room, 
but  came  back  immediately. 

“Not  there?”  said  Matthew.  The  man  shook 
his  head.  “ I don’t  think  you  will  find  them  about 
here,”  added  the  bar-keeper. 

Mr.  Harrison — this  was  the  name  by  which 
Matthew  had  addressed  him — stood  musing,  and 
irresolute  for  some  minutes.  He  could  not  be 
mistaken  about  the  entrance  oj  his  sons,  and  yet 
they  were  not  there.  His  manner  was  much  per- 
plexed. At  length  he  took  a seat,  in  a far  corner 
of  the  bar-room,  somewhat  beyond  the  line  of 
observation,  evidently  with  the  purpose  of  waiting 
to  see  if  those  he  sought  would  come  in.  He  had 
not  been  there  long,  before  two  young  men  en- 
tered, whose  appearance  at  once  excited  his  in- 
terest. They  went  up  to  the  bar  and  called  for 
liquor.  As  Matthew  set  the  decanter  before  them, 
he  leaned  over  the  counter,  and  said  something  in 
a whisper. 

“ Where?  ” was  instantly  ejaculated,  in  surprise, 
and  both  of  the  young  men  glanced  uneasily 
about  the  room.  They  met  the  eyes  of  Mr.  Har- 
rison, fixed  intently  upon  them.  I do  not  think, 
from  the  way  they  swallowed  their  brandy  and 
water,  that  it  was  enjoyed  very  much. 

“What  the  deuce  is  he  doing  here?”  I heard 
one  of  them  say,  in  a low  voice. 

“ After  the  boys,  of  course.” 

“ Have  they  come  yet?  ” 

Matthew  winked  as  he  answered,  “ All  safe.” 


NIGHT  THE  SIXTH. 


119 


“ In  No.  4?  ” 

“ Yes.  And  the  wine  and  cigars  all  waiting  for 
vou.” 

“Good!” 

“ You'd  better  not  go  through  the  parlor.  Their 
old  man’s  not  at  all  satisfied.  He  half  suspects 
they’re  in  the  house.  Better  go  off  down  the 
street,  and  come  back  and  enter  through  the  pas- 
sage.” 

The  young  men,  acting  on  this  hint,  at  once  re- 
tired, the  eyes  of  Harrison  following  them  out. 

For  nearly  an  hour  Mr.  Harrison  kept  his  posi- 
tion, a close  observer  of  all  that  transpired.  I am 
very  much  in  error,  if,  before  leaving  that  sink  of 
iniquity,  he  was  not  fully  satisfied  as  to  the  pro- 
priety of  legislating  on  the  liquor  question.  Nay, 
I incline  to  the  opinion,  that,  if  the  power  of  sup- 
pression had  rested  in  his  hands,  there  would  not 
have  been,  in  the  whole  State,  at  the  expiration 
of  an  hour,  a single  dram-selling  establishment. 
The  goring  of  his  ox  had  opened  his  eyes  to  the 
true  merits  of  the  question.  While  he  was  yet 
in  the  bar-room,  young  Hammond  made  his  ap- 
pearance. His  look  was  wild  and  excited.  First 
he  called  for  brandy,  and  drank  with  the  eagerness 
of  a man  long  athirst. 

“ Where  is  Green?  ” I heard  him  inquire,  as  he 
set  his  glass  upon  the  counter. 

“ Haven’t  seen  anything  of  him  since  supper/' 
was  answered  by  Matthew. 

“ Is  he  in  his  room?  ” 

“ I think  it  probable.” 

“ Has  Judge  Lyman  been  about  here  to-night?” 

“ Yes.  He  spouted  here  for  half  an  hour  against 
the  temperance  party,  as  usual,  and  then  ” — Mat- 
thew tossed  his  head  toward  the  door  leading  to 
the  sitting-room. 

Hammond  was  moving  toward  this  door,  when, 


120  TEN  NIGHTS  IN  A BAR-ROOM. 

in  glancing  around  the  room,  he  encountered  the 
fixed  gaze  of  Mr.  Harrison — a gaze  that  instantly 
checked  his  progress.  Returning  to  the  bar,  and 
leaning  over  the  counter,  he  said  to  Matthew: 

“ What  has  sent  him  here?  ” 

Matthew  winked  knowingly. 

“ After  the  boys?  ” inquired  Hammond. 

“ Yes.” 

“ Where  are  they?  ” 

“ Up-stairs.” 

“ Does  he  suspect  this?” 

“ I can’t  tell.  If  he  doesn’t  think  them  here 
now,  he  is  looking  for  them  to  come  in.” 

“ Do  they  know  he  is  after  them?” 

“ O yes.” 

“ All  safe  then?  ” 

“ As  an  iron  chest.  If  you  want  to  see  them, 
just  rap  at  No.  4.” 

Hammond  stood  for  some  minutes  leaning  on 
the  bar,  and  then,  not  once  again  looking  toward 
that  part  of  the  room  where  Mr.  Harrison  was 
seated,  passed  out  through  the  door  leading  to 
the  street.  Soon  afterward  Mr.  Harrison  depart- 
ed. 

Disgusted,  as  on  the  night  before,  with  the  un- 
ceasing flow  of  vile,  obscene,  and  profane  lan- 
guage, I left  my  place  of  observation  in  the  bar- 
room and  sought  the  open  air.  The  sky  was  un- 
obscured by  a single  cloud,  and  the  moon,  almost 
at  the  full,  shone  abroad  with  more  than  common 
brightness.  I had  not  been  sitting  long  in  the 
porch,  when  the  same  lady,  whose  movements 
had  attracted  my  attention,  came  in  sight,  walking 
very  slowly — the  deliberate  pace  assumed,  evi- 
dently, for  the  purpose  of  better  observation.  On 
coming  opposite  the  tavern,  she  slightly  paused, 
as  on  the  evening  before,  and  then  kept  on,  pass- 


NIGHT  THE  SIXTH . 121 

ing  down  the  street,  until  she  was  beyond  observa- 
tion. 

“ Poor  mother!  ” I was  still  repeating  to  myself, 
when  her  form  again  met  my  eyes.  Slowly  she 
advanced,  and  now  came  in  nearer  to  the  house. 
The  interest  excited  in  my  mind  was  so  strong, 
that  I could  not  repress  the  desire  I felt  to  address 
her,  and  so  stepped  from  the  shadow  of  the  porch. 
She  seemed  startled,  and  retreated  backward  sev- 
eral paces. 

“ Are  you  in  search  of  any  one?”  I inquired, 
respectfully. 

The  woman  now  stood  in  a position  that  let  the 
moon  shine  full  upon  her  face,  revealing  every 
feature.  She  was  far  past  the  meridian  of  life;  and 
there  were  lines  of  suffering  and  sorrow  on  her 
fine  countenance.  I saw  that  her  lips  moved,  but 
it  was  some  time  before  I distinguished  the  words. 

“ Have  you  seen  my  son  to-night?  They  say 
he  comes  here.” 

The  manner  in  which  this  was  said  caused  a 
cold  thrill  to  run  over  me.  I perceived  that  the 
woman's  mind  wandered.  I answered: 

“ No,  ma'am;  I haven't  seen  anything  of  him.” 

My  tone  of  voice  seemed  to  inspire  her  with 
confidence,  for  she  came  up  close  to  me,  and  bent 
her  face  toward  mine. 

“ It's  a dreadful  place,”  she  whispered,  huskily. 
“ And  they  say  he  comes  here.  Poor  boy!  He 
isn't  what  he  used  to  be.” 

“ It  is  a very  bad  place,”  said  I.  “ Come  - 
and  I moved  a step  or  two  in  the  direction  from 
which  I had  seen  her  approaching — “ come,  you'd 
better  go  away  as  quickly  as  possible.” 

“ But  if  he's  here,”  she  answered,  not  moving 
from  where  she  stood,  “ I might  save  him,  you 
know.” 


122  TEN  nights  in  a bar-room. 

“ I am  sure  you  won’t  find  him,  ma’am,”  1 
urged.  “ Perhaps  he  is  home,  now.” 

“ Oh,  no!  no!  ” And  she  shook  her  head  mourn- 
fully. “ He  never  comes  home  until  long  after 
midnight.  I wish  I could  see  inside  of  the  bar-i 
room.  I’m  sure  he  must  be  there.” 

“ If  you  will  tell  me  his  name,  I will  go  in  an* 
search  for  him.” 

After  a moment  of  hesitation,  she  answered: 

“ His  name  is  Willy  Hammond.” 

How  the  name,  uttered  so  sadly,  and  yet  with 
such  moving  tenderness  by  the  mother’s  lips, 
caused  me  to  start — almost  to  tremble. 

“ If  he  is  in  the  house,  ma’am,”  said  I,  firmly, 
i(  I will  see  him  for  you.”  And  I left  her  and 
went  into  the  bar. 

“ In  what  room  do  you  think  I will  find  young 
Hammond?”  I asked  of  the  bar-keeper. 

He  looked  at  me  curiously,  but  did  not  answer. 
The  question  had  come  upon  him  unanticipated. 

“ In  Harvey  Green’s  room?  ” I pursued. 

“ I don’t  know,  I am  sure.  He  isn’t  in  the  house 
to  my  knowledge.  I saw  him  go  out  about  half 
an  hour  since.” 

“ Green’s  room  is  No. ? ” 

“ Eleven,”  he  answered. 

“ In  the  front  part  of  the  house?” 

“ Yes.” 

I asked  no  further  question,  but  went  to  No. 
ii,  and  tapped  on  the  door.  But  no  one  answered 
the  summons.  I listened,  but  could  not  distin- 
guish the  slightest  sound  within.  Again  I knocked; 
but  louder.  If  my  ears  did  not  deceive  me,  the 
chink  of  coin  was  heard.  Still  there  was  neither 
voice  nor  movement. 

I was  disappointed.  That  the  room  had  in- 
mates, I felt  sure.  Remembering,  now,  what  I 
had  heard  about  light  being  seen  in  this  room 


NIGHT  THE  SIXTH. 


123 

through  a rent  in  the  curtain,  I went  down-stairs, 
and  out  into  the  street.  A short  distance  beyond 
the  house,  I saw,  dimly,  the  woman’s  form.  She 
had  only  just  passed  in  her  movement  to  and  fro. 
Glancing  up  at  the  window,  which  I now  knew  to 
be  the  one  in  Green’s  room,  light  through  the  torn 
curtain  was  plainly  visible.  Back  into  the  house 
I went,  and  up  to  No.  n.  This  time  I knocked 
imperatively;  and  this  time  made  myself  heard. 

“ What’s  wanted?  ” came  from  within.  I knew 
the  voice  to  be  that  of  Harvey  Green. 

I only  knocked  louder.  A hurried  movement 
and  the  low  murmur  of  voices  was  heard  for  some 
moments;  then  the  door  was  unlocked  and  held 
partly  open  by  Green,  whose  body  so  filled  the 
narrow  aperture  that  I could  not  look  into  the 
room.  Seeing  me,  a dark  scowl  fell  upon  his 
countenance. 

“ What  d’ye  want?”  he  inquired,  sharply. 

“ Is  Mr.  Hammond  here?  If  so,  he  is  wanted 
down-stairs.” 

“ No,  he’s  not,”  was  the  quick  answer.  “ What 
sent  you  here  for  him,  hey?  ” 

“ The  fact  that  I expected  to  find  him  in  your 
room,”  was  my  firm  answer. 

Green  was  about  shutting  the  door  in  my  face, 
when  some  one  placed  a hand  on  his  shoulder, 
and  said  something  to  him  that  I could  not  hear. 

“ Who  wants  to  see  him?  ” he  inquired  of  me. 

Satisfied,  now,  that  Hammond  was  in  the  room, 
I said,  slightly  elevating  my  voice: 

“ His  mother.” 

The  words  were  an  “ open  sesame  ” to  the 
room.  The  door  was  suddenly  jerked  open,  and 
with  a blanching  face,  the  young  man  confronted 
me. 

“ Who  says  my  mother  is  down-stairs?  ” h^  de- 
manded. 


124  TEN  nights  in  a bar-room. 

“ I come  from  her  in  search  of  you,”  I said, 
“ You  will  find  her  in  the  road,  walking  up  and 
down  in  front  of  the  tavern.” 

Almost  with  a bound  he  swept  by  me,  and 
descended  the  stairway  at  two  or  three  long 
strides.  As  the  door  swung  open,  I saw,  besides 
Green  and  Hammond,  the  landlord  and  Judge 
Lyman.  It  needed  not  the  loose  cards  on  the 
table  near  which  the  latter  were  sitting  to  tell  me 
of  fctoeir  business  in  that  room. 

As  quickly  as  seemed  decorous,  I followed 
Hammond.  On  the  porch  I met  him,  coming  in 
from  the  road. 

“ You  have  deceived  me,  sir,”  said  he,  sternly 
— almost  menacingly. 

” No,  sir!”  I replied.  “ What  I told  you  was 
but  too  true.  Look!  There  she  is  now.” 

The  young  man  sprung  around,  and  stood  be- 
fore the  woman,  a few  paces  distant. 

“ Mother!  oh,  mother!  what  has  brought  you 
here?”  he  exclaimed,  in  an  under  tone,  as  he 
caught  her  arm,  and  moved  away.  He  spoke — 1 
not  roughly,  nor  angrily — but  with  respect — half 
reproachfulness — and  an  unmistakable  tender- 
ness. v 

“ Oh,  Willy!  Willy!”  I heard  her  answer. 
“ Somebody  said  you  came  here  at  night,  and  I 
couldn’t  rest.  Oh,  dear!  They’ll  murder  you!  I 

know  they  will.  Don’t,  oh! ” 

My  eyes  took  in  the  scene  no  further,  though 
her  pleading  voice  still  reached  my  ears.  A few 
moments,  and  they  were  out  of  sight. 

Nearly  two  hours  afterward,  as  I was  ascend- 
ing to  my  chamber,  a man  brushed  quickly  by 
me.  I glanced  after  him,  and  recognized  the  per- 
son of  young  Hammond.  He  was  going  to  the 
room  of  Harvey  Green! 


NIGHT  THE  SEVENTH. 


125 


NIGHT  THE  SEVENTH. 

SOWING  THE  WIND. 

The  state  of  affairs  in  Cedarville,  it  was  plain, 
from  the  partial  glimpses  I had  received,  was 
rather  desperate.  Desperate,  I mean,  as  regarded 
the  various  parties  brought  before  my  observation. 
An  eating  cancer  was  on  the  community,  and  so 
far  as  the  eye  could  mark  its  destructive  progress, 
the  ravages  were  fearful.  That  its  roots  were 
striking  deep,  and  penetrating,  concealed  from 
view,  in  many  unsuspected  directions,  there  could 
be  no  doubt.  What  appeared  on  the  surface  was 
but  a milder  form  of  the  disease,  compared  with 
its  hidden,  more  vital,  and  more  dangerous  ad- 
vances. 

I could  not  but  feel  a strong  interest  in  some  of 
these  parties.  The  case  of  young  Hammond  had, 
from  the  first,  awakened  concern ; and  now  a new 
element  was  added  in  the  unlooked-for  appear- 
ance of  his  mother  on  the  stage,  in  a state  that 
seemed  one  of  partial  derangement.  The  gentle- 
man at  whose  office  I met  Mr.  Harrison  on  the 
day  before — the  reader  will  remember  Mr.  H.  as 
having  come  to  the  “ Sickle  and  Sheaf  ” in  search 
of  his  sons — was  thoroughly  conversant  with  the 
affairs  of  the  village,  and  I called  upon  him  early 
in  the  day  in  order  to  make  some  inquiries  about 
Mrs.  Hammond.  My  first  question,  as  to  whether 
he  knew  the  lady,  was  answered  by  the  remark : 

“ Oh,  yes.  She  is  one  of  my  earliest  friends.” 
The  allusion  to  her  did  not  seem  to  awaken 
agreeable  states  of  mind.  A slight  shade  obscured 


126  TEN  nights  in  a bar-room. 

his  face,  and  I noticed  that  he  sighed  involun- 
tarily. • 

“ Is  Willy  her  only  child?  ” 

“ Her  only  living  child.  She  had  four;  another 
son,  and  two  daughters;  but  she  lost  all  but  Willy 
when  they  were  quite  young.  And,”  he  added, 
after  a pause — “ it  would  have  been  better  for  her, 
and  for  Willy,  too,  if  he  had  gone  to  a better  land 
with  them.” 

“ His  course  of  life  must  be  to  her  a terrible 
affliction,”  said  I. 

“ It  is  destroying  her  reason,”  he  replied,  with 
emphasis.  “ He  was  her  idol.  No  mother  ever 
loved  a son  with  more  self-devotion  than  Mrs. 
Hammond  loved  her  beautiful,  fine-spirited,  in- 
telligent, affectionate  boy.  To  say  that  she  was 
proud  of  him,  is  but  a tame  expression.  Intense 
love — almost  idolatry — was  the  strong  passion  of 
her  heart.  How  tender,  how  watchful  was  her 
love!  Except  when  at  school,  he  was  scarcely  ever 
separated  from  her.  In  order  to  keep  him  by  her 
side,  she  gave  up  her  thoughts  to  the  suggestion 
and  maturing  of  plans  for  keeping  his  mind  active 
and  interested  in  her  society — and  her  success  was 
perfect.  Up  to  the  age  of  sixteen  or  seventeen,  I 
do  not  think  he  had  a desire  for  other  companion- 
ship than  that  of  his  mother.  But  this,  you  know, 
could  not  last.  The  boy’s  maturing  thought  must 
go  beyond  the  home  and  social  circle.  The  great 
world,  that  he  was  soon  to  enter,  was  before  him; 
and  through  loopholes  that  opened  here  and  there 
he  obtained  partial  glimpses  of  what  was  beyond. 
To  step  forth  into  this  world,  where  he  was  soon 
to  be  a busy  actor  and  worker,  and  to  step  forth 
alone,  next  came  in  the  natural  order  of  progress. 
How  his  mother  trembled  with  anxiety,  as  she 
saw  him  leave  her  side!  Of  the  dangers  that  would 
surround  his  path,  she  knew  too  well;  and  these 


NIGHT  THE  SEVENTH. 


127 

were  magnified  by  her  fears — at  least  so  I often 
said  to  her.  Alas!  how  far  the  sad  reality  has 
outrun  her  most  fearful  anticipations. 

“ When  Willy  was  eighteen — he  was  then  read- 
ing law — I think  I never  saw  a young  man  of 
fairer  promise.  As  I have  often  heard  it  remarked 
of  him,  he  did  not  appear  to  have  a single  fault. 
But  he  had  a dangerous  gift — rare  conversational 
powers,  united  with  great  urbanity  of  manner. 
Every  one  who  made  his  acquaintance  became 
charmed  with  his  society;  and  he  soon  found  him- 
self surrounded  by  a circle  of  young  men,  some 
of  whom  were  not  the  best  companions  he  might 
have  chosen.  Still,  his  own  pure  instincts  and 
honorable  principles  were  his  safeguard;  and  I 
never  have  believed  that  any  social  allurements 
would  have  drawn  him  away  from  the  right  path, 
if  this  accursed  tavern  had  not  been  opened  by 
Slade.” 

“ There  was  a tavern  here  before  the  ‘ Sickle 
and  Sheaf’  was  opened?”  said  I. 

“ Oh,  yes.  But  it  was  badly  kept,  and  the  bar- 
room visitors  were  of  the  lowest  class.  No  re- 
spectable young  man  in  Cedarville  would  have 
been  seen  there.  It  offered  no  temptations  to  one 
moving  in  Willy’s  circle.  But  the  opening  of  the 
‘ Sickle  and  Sheaf  ’ formed  a new  era.  Judge 
Hammond — himself  not  the  purest  man  in  the 
world,  I’m  afraid — gave  his  countenance  to  the 
establishment,  and  talked  of  Simon  Slade  as  an 
enterprising  man  who  ought  to  be  encouraged. 
Judge  Lyman  and  other  men  of  position  in  Cedar- 
ville followed  his  bad  example;  and  the  bar-room 
of  the  ‘ Sickle  and  Sheaf  ’ was  at  once  voted  re- 
spectable. At  all  times  of  the  day  and  evening 
you  could  see  the  flower  of  our  young  men  going 
in  and  out,  sitting  in  front  of  the  bar-room,  or 
talking  hand  and  glove  with  the  landlord,  who, 


128  TEN  NIGHTS  IN  A BAR-ROOM. 

from  a worthy  miller,  regarded  as  well  enough  in 
his  place,  was  suddenly  elevated  into  a man  of 
importance,  whom  the  best  in  the  village  were 
delighted  to  honor. 

“ In  the  beginning,  Willy  went  with  the  tide, 
and,  in  an  incredibly  short  period,  was  acquiring 
a fondness  for  drink  that  startled  and  alarmed  his 
friends.  In  going  in  through  Slade’s  open  door, 
he  entered  the  downward  way,  and  has  been  mov- 
ing onward  with  fleet  footsteps  ever  since.  The 
fiery  poison  inflamed  his  mind,  at  the  same  time 
that  it  dimmed  his  noble  perceptions.  Fondness 
for  mere  pleasure  followed,  and  this  led  him  into 
various  sensual  indulgences,  and  exciting  modes 
of  passing  the  time.  Every  one  liked  him — he 
was  so  free,  so  companionable,  and  so  generous — 
and  almost  every  one  encouraged,  rather  than 
repressed,  his  dangerous  proclivities.  Even  his 
father,  for  a time,  treated  the  matter  lightly,  as 
only  the  first  flush  of  young  life.  ‘ I commenced 
sowing  my  wild  oats  at  quite  as  early  an  age/  I 
have  heard  him  say.  ‘ He'll  cool  off,  and  do  well 
enough.  Never  fear.'  But  his  mother  was  in  a 
state  of  painful  alarm  from  the  beginning.  Her 
truer  instincts,  made  doubly  acute  by  her  yearn- 
ing love,  perceived  the  imminent  danger,  and  in 
all  possible  ways  did  she  seek  to  lure  him  from 
the  path  in  which  he  was  moving  at  so  rapid  a 
pace.  Willy  was  always  very  much  attached  to 
his  mother,  and  her  influence  over  him  was  strong; 
but  in  this  case  he  regarded  her  fears  as  chimeri- 
cal. The  way  in  which  he  walked  was,  to  him,  so 
pleasant,  and  the  companions  of  his  journey  so 
delightful,  that  he  could  not  believe  in  the  prophe- 
sied evil;  and  when  his  mother  talked  to  fiim  in 
her  warning  voice,  and  with  a sad  countenance, 
he  smiled  at  her  concern,  and  made  light  of  her 
fears. 


NIGHT  THE  SEVENTH.  129 

“ And  so  it  went  on,  month  after  month,  and 
year  after  year,  until  the  young  man's  sad  declen- 
sions were  the  town  talk.  In  order  to  throw  his 
mind  into  a new  channel— to  awaken,  if  possible, 
a new  and  better  interest  in  life — his  father  vent- 
ured upon  the  doubtful  experiment  we  spoke  of 
yesterday : that  of  placing  capital  in  his  hands,  and 
making  him  an  equal  partner  in  the  business  of 
distilling  and  cotton-spinning.  The  disastrous — I 
might  say  disgraceful — result  you  know.  The 
young  man  squandered  his  own  capital,  and 
heavily  embarrassed  his  father. 

“ The  effect  of  all  this  upon  Mrs.  Hammond 
has  been  painful  in  the  extreme.  We  can  only 
dimly  imagine  the  terrible  suffering  through 
which  she  has  passed.  Her  present  aberration 
was  first  visible  after  a long  period  of  sleepless- 
ness, occasioned  by  distress  of  mind.  During  the 
whole  of  two  weeks,  I am  told,  she  did  not  close 
her  eyes;  the  most  of  that  time  walking  the  floor 
of  her  chamber,  and  weeping.  Powerful  ano- 
dynes, frequently  repeated,  at  length  brought  re- 
lief. But,  when  she  awoke  from  a prolonged 
period  of  unconsciousness,  the  brightness  of  her 
reason  was  gone.  Since  then,  she  has  never  been 
clearly  conscious  of  what  was  passing  around  her, 
and  well  for  her,  I have  sometimes  thought  it 
was,  for  even  obscurity  of  intellect  is  a blessing 
in  her  case.  Ah,  me ! I always  get  the  heart-ache, 
when  I think  of  her." 

“ Did  not  this  event  startle  the  young  man  from 
his  fatal  dream,  if  I may  so  call  his  mad  infatua- 
tion?" I asked. 

“fNo.  He  loved  his  mother,  and  was  deeply 
afflicted  by  the  calamity;  but  it  seemed  as  if  he 
could  not  stop.  Some  terrible  necessity  appeared 
to  be  impelling  him  onward.  If  he  formed  good 
resolutions — and  I doubt  not  that  he  did — they 


130  TEN  nights  in  a bar-room. 

were  blown  away  like  threads  of  gossamer,  the 
moment  he  came  within  the  sphere  of  old  associa- 
tions. His  way  to  the  mill  was  by  the  ‘ Sickle 
and  Sheaf;’  and  it  was  not  easy  for  him  to  pass 
there  without  being  drawn  into  the  bar,  either  by 
his  own  desire  for  drink,  or  through  the  invitation 
of  some  pleasant  companion,  who  was  lounging  in 
front  of  the  tavern.” 

“ There  may  have  been  something  even  more 
impelling  than  his  love  of  drink,”  said  I. 

“ What?” 

I related,  briefly,  the  occurrences  of  the  pre- 
ceding night. 

“ I feared — nay,  I was  certain — that  he  was  in 
the  toils  of  this  man!  And  yet  your  confirmation 
of  the  fact  startles  and  confounds  me,”  said  he, 
moving  about  his  office  in  a disturbed  manner. 
“ If  my  mind  has  questioned  and  doubted  in  re- 
gard to  young  Hammond,  it  questions  and  doubts 
no  longer.  The  word  ‘ mystery  ’ is  not  now  writ- 
ten over  the  door  of  his  habitation.  Great  Father! 
and  is  it  thus  that  our  young  men  are  led  into 
temptation?  Thus  that  their  ruin  is  premeditated, 
secured?  Thus  that  the  fowler  is  permitted  to 
spread  his  net  in  the  open  day,  and  the  destroyer 
licensed  to  work  ruin  in  darkness?  It  is  awful  to 
contemplate!  ” 

The  man  was  strongly  excited. 

“ Thus  it  is,”  he  continued;  “ and  we  who  see 
the  whole  extent,  origin,  and  downward  rushing 
force  of  a widely  sweeping  desolation,  lift  our 
voices  of  warning  almost  in  vain.  Men  who  have 
everything  at  stake — sons  to  fre  corrupted,  and 
daughters  to  become  the  wives  of  young  men 
exposed  to  corrupting  influences — stand  aloof, 
questioning  and  doubting  as  to  the  expediency  of 
protecting  the  innocent  from  the  wolfish  designs 
of  bad  men;  who,  to  compass  their  own  selfish 


NIGHT  THE  SEVENTH. 


131 

endf,  would  destroy  them  body  and  soul.  We 
are  called  fanatics,  ultraists,  designing,  and  all 
that,  because  we  ask  our  law-makers  to  stay  the 
fiery  ruin.  Oh,  no ! We  must  not  touch  the  traffic. 
All  the  dearest  and  best  interests  of  society  may 
suffer;  but  the  rum-seller  must  be  protected.  He 
must  be  allowed  to  get  gain,  if  the  jails  and  poor- 
houses  are  filled,  and  the  graveyards  made  fat 
with  the  bodies  of  young  men  stricken  down  in 
the  flower  of  their  years,  and  of  wives  and  moth- 
ers who  have  died  of  broken  hearts.  Reform,  we 
are  told,  must  commence  at  home.  We  must  rear 
temperate  children,  and  then  we  shall  have  tem- 
perate men,  that  when  there  are  none  to  desire 
liquor,  the  rum-seller's  traffic  will  cease.  And  all 
the  while  society's  true  benefactors  are  engaged  in 
doing  this,  the  weak,  the  unsuspecting,  and  the 
erring  must  be  left  an  easy  prey,  even  if  the  work 
requires  for  its  accomplishment  a hundred  years. 
Sir!  a human  soul  destroyed  through  the  rum- 
seller's  infernal  agency,  is  a sacrifice  priceless  in 
value.  No  considerations  of  worldly  gain  can,  for 
an  instant,  be  placed  in  comparison  therewith. 
And  yet  souls  are  destroyed  by  thousands  every 
year;  and  they  will  fall  by  tens  of  thousands  ere 
society  awakens  from  its  fatal  indifference  and 
lays  its  strong  hand  of  power  on  the  corrupt  men 
who  are  scattering  disease,  ruin,  and  death,  broad- 
cast over  the  land! 

“ I always  get  warm  on  this  subject,"  he  added, 
repressing  his  enthusiasm.  “ And  who  that  ob- 
serves and  reflects  can  help  growing  excited?  The 
evil  is  appalling;  and  the  indifference  of  the  com- 
munity one  of  the  strangest  facts  of  the  day." 

While  he  was  yet  speaking,  the  elder  Mr.  Ham- 
mond came  in.  He  looked  wretched.  The  red- 
ness and  humidity  of  his  eyes  showed  want  of 
sleep,  and  the  relaxed  muscles  of  his  face  exhaus- 


132  TEN  nights  in  a bar-room. 

tion  from  weariness  and  suffering.  He  drew  the 
person  with  whom  I had  been  talking  aside,  and 
continued  in  earnest  conversation  with  him  for 
many  minutes — often  gesticulating  violently.  I 
could  see  his  face,  though  I heard  nothing  of  what 
he  said.  The  play  of  his  features  was  painful  to 
look  upon,  for  every  changing  muscle  showed  a 
new  phase  of  mental  suffering. 

“ Try  and  see  him,  will  you  not?  ” he  said,  as 
he  turned,  at  length,  to  leave  the  office. 

“ I will  go  there  immediately/’  was  answered. 

“ Bring  him  home,  if  possible.” 

“ My  very  best  efforts  shall  be  made.” 

Judge  Hammond  bowed,  and  went  out  hur- 
riedly. 

“ Do  you  know  the  number  of  the  room  occu- 
pied by  the  man  Green?”  asked  the  gentleman, 
as  soon  as  his  visitor  had  retired. 

“ Yes.  It  is  No.  ii.” 

“ Willy  has  not  been  home  since  last  night.  His 
father,  at  this  late  day,  suspects  Green  to  be  a 
gambler.  The  truth  flashed  upon  him  only  yes- 
terday; and  this,  added  to  his  other  sources  of 
trouble,  is  driving  him,  so  he  says,  almost  mad. 
As  a friend,  he  wishes  me  to  go  to  the  ‘ Sickle  and 
Sheaf/  and  try  and  find  Willy.  Have  you  seen 
anything  of  him  this  morning?  ” 

I answered  in  the  negative. 

“ Nor  of  Green?  ” 

“ No.” 

“ Was  Slade  about  when  you  left  the  tavern?  ” 

“ I saw  nothing  of  him.” 

“ What  Judge  Hammond  fears  may  be  all  too 
true — that,  in  the  present  condition  of  Willy’s 
affairs,  which  have  reached  the  point  of  disaster, 
his  tempter  means  to  secure  the  largest  possible 
share  of  property  yet  in  his  power  to  pledge  or 
transfer, — to  squeeze  from  his  victim  the  last  drop 


NIGHT  THE  SEVENTH.  133 

of  blood  that  remains,  and  then  fling  him,  ruth- 
lessly, from  his  hands.” 

“ The  young  man  must  have  been  rendered 
almost  desperate,  or  he  would  never  have  re- 
turned, as  he  did,  last  night.  Did  you  mention 
this  to  his  father?  ” 

“ No.  It  would  have  distressed  him  the  more, 
without  effecting  any  good.  He  is  wretched 
enough.  But  time  passes,  and  none  is  to  be  lost 
now.  Will  you  go  with  me?” 

I walked  to  the  tavern  with  him;  and  we  went 
into  the  bar  together.  Two  or  three  men  were  at 
the  counter,  drinking. 

“ Is  Mr.  Green  about  this  morning?  ” was  asked 
by  the  person  who  had  come  in  search  of  young 
Hammond. 

“ Haven’t  seen  anything  of  him.” 

“ Is  he  in  his  room?  ” 

“ I don’t  know.” 

“ Will  you  ascertain  for  me?  ” 

“ Certainly.  Frank,”- — and  he  spoke  to  the  land- 
lord’s son,  who  was  lounging  on  a settee, — “ I 
wish  you  would  see  if  Mr.  Green  is  in  his  room.” 

“ Go  and  see  yourself.  I’m  not  your  waiter,” 
was  growled  back,  in  an  ill-natured  voice. 

“ In  a moment  I’ll  ascertain  for  you,”  said  Mat- 
thew, politely. 

After  waiting  on  some  new  customers,  who 
were  just  entering,  Matthew  went  up-stairs  to 
obtain  the  desired  information.  As  he  left  the 
bar-room,  Frank  got  up  and  went  behind  the 
counter,  where  he  mixed  himself  a glass  of  liquor, 
and  drank  it  off,  evidently  with  real  enjoyment. 

“ Rather  a dangerous  business  for  one  so  young 
as  you  are,”  remarked  the  gentleman  with  whom 
I had  come,  as  Frank  stepped  out  of  the  bar,  and 
passed  near  where  we  were  standing.  The  only 
answer  to  this  was  an  ill-natured  frown,  and  an 


134  TEN  nights  in  a bar-room. 

expression  of  face  which  said  almost  as  plainly 
as  words,  “ It's  none  of  your  business.” 

“ Not  there,”  said  Matthew,  now  coming  in. 

" Are  you  certain?  ” 

“ Yes,  sir.” 

But  there  was  a certain  involuntary  hesitation 
in  the  bar-keeper's  manner,  which  led  to  a sus- 
picion that  his  answer  was  not  in  accordance  with 
the  truth.  We  walked  out  together,  conferring 
on  the  subject,  and  both  concluded  that  his  word 
was  not  to  be  relied  upon. 

"What  is  to  be  done?”  was  asked. 

“ Go  to  Green's  room,”  I replied,  " and  knock 
at  the  door.  If  he  is  there,  he  may  answer,  not 
suspecting  your  errand.” 

“ Show  me  the  room.” 

I went  up  with  him,  and  pointed  out  No.  n.  He 
knocked  lightly,  but  there  came  no  sound  from 
within.  He  repeated  the  knock;  all  was  silent. 
Again  and  again  he  knocked,  but  there  came  back 
only  a hollow  reverberation. 

“ There's  no  one  there,”  said  he,  returning  to 
where  I stood,  and  we  walked  down-stairs  to- 
gether. On  the  landing,  as  we  reached  the  lower 
passage,  we  met  Mrs.  Slade.  I had  not,  during 
this  visit  at  Cedarville,  stood  face  to  face  with  her 
before.  Oh!  what  a wreck  she  presented,  with 
her  pale,  shrunken  countenance,  hollow,  lustreless 
eyes,  and  bent,  feeble  body.  I almost  shuddered 
as  I looked  at  her.  What  a haunting  and  sternly 
rebuking  spectre  she  must  have  moved,  daily,,  be- 
fore the  eyes  of  her  husband. 

" Have  you  noticed  Mr.  Green  about  this  morn- 
ing?” I asked. 

" He  hasn't  come  down  from  his  room  yet,” 
she  replied. 

"Are  you  certain?”  said  my  companion.  "I 


NIGHT  THE  SEVENTH.  135 

knocked  several  times  at  the  door  just  now,  but 
received  no  answer.” 

"What  do  you  want  with  him?”  asked  Mrs. 
Slade,  fixing  her  eyes  upon  us. 

"We  are  in  search  of  Willy  Hammond;  and  it 
has  been  suggested  that  he  is  with  Green.” 

" Knock  twice  lightly,  and  then  three  times 
more  firmly,”  said  Mrs.  Slade;  and  as  she  spoke, 
she  glided  past  us  with  noiseless  tread. 

" Shall  we  go  up  together?  ” 

I did  not  object,  for,  although  I had  no  dele- 
gated right  of  intrusion,  my  feelings  were  so  much 
excited  in  the  case,  that  I went  forward,  scarcely 
reflecting  on  the  propriety  of  so  doing. 

The  signal  knock  found  instant  answer.  The 
door  was  softly  opened,  and  the  unshaven  face 
of  Simon  Slade  presented  itself. 

"Mr.  Jacobs!”  he  said,  with  surprise  in  his 
tones.  " Do  you  wish  to  see  me?  ” 

"No,  sir;  I wish  to  see  Mr.  Green,”  and  with 
a quick,  firm  pressure  against  the  door,  he  pushed 
it  wide  open.  The  same  party  was  there  that  I 
had  seen  on  the  night  before, — Green,  young 
Hammond,  Judge  Lyman,  and  Slade.  On  the 
table  at  which  the  three  former  were  sitting,  were 
cards,  slips  of  paper,  an  inkstand  and  pens,  and  a 
pile  of  bank-notes.  On  a side-table,  or,  rather, 
butler’s  tray,  were  bottles,  decanters,  and  glasses. 

" Judge  Lyman!  Is  it  possible?  ” exclaimed  Mr. 
Jacobs,  the  name  of  my  companion;  "I  did  not 
expect  to  find  you  here.” 

Green  instantly  swept  his  hand  over  the  table 
to  secure  the  money  and  bills  it  contained;  but, 
ere  he  had  accomplished  his  purpose,  young  Ham- 
mond grappled  three  or  four  narrow  strips  of 
paper,  and  hastily  tore  them  into  shreds. 

"You’re  a cheating  scoundrel!”  cried  Green, 
fiercely,  thrusting  his  hand  into  his  bosom  as  if 


136  TEN  NIGHTS  IN  A BAR-ROOM. 

to  draw  from  thence  a weapon;  but  the  words 
were  scarcely  uttered,  ere  Hammond  sprang  upon 
him  with  the  fierceness  of  a tiger,  bearing  him 
down  upon  the  floor.  Both  hands  were  already 
about  the  gambler’s  neck,  and,  ere  the  bewildered 
spectators  could  interfere,  and  drag  him  off,  Green 
was  purple  in  the  face,  and  nearly  strangled. 

"Call  me  a cheating  scoundrel !”  said  Ham- 
mond, foaming  at  the  mouth,  as  he  spoke, — “ Me! 
whom  you  have  followed  like  a thirsty  blood- 
hound. Me!  whom  you  have  robbed,  and  cheated, 
and  debased,  from  the  beginning!  Oh,  for  a pistol 
to  rid  the  earth  of  the  blackest-hearted  villain  that 
walks  its  surface.  Let  me  go,  gentlemen!  I have 
nothing  left  in  the  world  to  care  for, — there  is  no 
consequence  I fear.  Let  me  do  society  one  good 
service  before  I die!  ” 

And,  with  oue  vigorous  effort,  he  swept  himself 
clear  of  the  hands  that  were  pinioning  him,  and 
sprung  again  upon  the  gambler  with  the  fierce 
energy  of  a savage  beast.  By  this  time,  Green 
had  got  his  knife  free  from  its  sheath,  and,  as 
Hammond  was  closing  upon  him  in  his  blind 
rage,  plunged  it  into  his  side.  Quick  almost  as 
lightning,  the  knife  was  withdrawn,  and  two  more 
stabs  inflicted  ere  we  could  seize  and  disarm  the 
murderer.  As  we  did  so,  Willy  Hammond  fell 
over  with  a deep  groan,  the  blood  flowing  from 
his  side. 

In  the  terror  and  excitement  that  followed, 
Green  rushed  from  the  room.  The  doctor,  who 
was  instantly  summoned,  after  carefully  examin- 
ing the  wound,  and  the  condition  of  the  unhappy 
young  man,  gave  it  as  his  opinion  that  he  was 
fatally  injured. 

Oh!  the  anguish  of  the  father,  who  had  quickly 
heard  of  the  dreadful  occurrence,  when  this  an- 
nouncement was  made.  I never  saw  such  fearful 


NIGHT  THE  SEVENTH. 


137 

agony  in  any  human  countenance.  The  calmest 
of  all  the  anxious  group  was  Willy  himself.  On 
his  father's  face  his  eyes  were  fixed  as  if  by  a kind 
of  fascination. 

“ Are  you  in  much  pain,  my  poor  boy!  " sobbed 
the  old  man,  stooping  over  him,  until  his  long 
white  hair  mingled  with  the  damp  locks  of  the 
sufferer. 

“ Not  much,  father,"  was  the  whispered  reply. 
“ Don't  speak  of  this  to  mother,  yet.  I'm  afraid 
it  will  kill  her." 

What  could  the  father  answer?  Nothing!  And 
he  was  silent. 

“ Does  she  know  of  it?  " A shadow  went  over 
his  face. 

Mr.  Hammond  shook  his  head. 

Yet,  even  as  he  spoke,  a wild  cry  of  distress 
was  heard  below.  Some  indiscreet  person  had 
borne  to  the  ears  of  the  mother  the  fearful  news 
about  her  son,  and  she  had  come  wildly  flying  to- 
ward the  tavern,  and  was  just  entering. 

“ It  is  my  poor  mother,"  said  Willy,  a flush 
coming  into  his  pale  face.  “ Who  could  have 
told  her  of  this?" 

Mr.  Hammond  started  for  the  door,  but  ere  he 
had  reached  it,  the  distracted  mother  entered. 

“ Oh!  Willy,  my  boy!  my  boy!  " she  exclaimed, 
in  tones  of  anguish  that  made  the  heart  shudder. 
And  she  crouched  down  on  the  floor,  the  mo- 
ment she  reached  the  bed  whereon  he  lay,  and 
pressed  her  lips — oh,  so  tenderly  and  lovingly!— 
to  his. 

“ Dear  mother!  Sweet  mother!  Best  of  moth- 
ers!" He  even  smiled  as  he  said  this;  and,  into 
the  face  that  now  bent  over  him,  looked  up  with 
glances  of  unutterable  fondness. 

“ Oh,  Willy!  Willy!  Willy,  my  son,  my  son!  " 
And  again  her  lips  were  laid  closely  to  his. 


138  TEN  NIGHTS  IN  A BAR-ROOM . 

Mr.  Hammond  now  interfered,  and  endeavored 
to  remove  his  wife,  fearing  for  the  consequence 
upon  his  son. 

“ Don't,  father!  ” said  Willy;  “ let  her  remain. 
I am  not  excited  nor  disturbed.  I am  glad  that 
she  is  here,  now.  It  will  be  best  for  us  both.” 

“ You  must  not  excite  him,  dear,”  said  Mr. 
Hajnmond — “ he  is  very  weak.” 

Ci  I’ll  not  excite  him,”  answered  the  mother. 
“ I’ll  not  speak  a word.  There,  love  ” — and  she 
laid  her  fingers  softly  upon  the  lips  of  her  son — 
“ don’t  speak  a single  word.” 

For  only  a few  moments  did  she  sit  with  the 
quiet  formality  of  a nurse,  who  feels  how  much 
depends  on  the  repose  of  her  patient.  Then  she 
began,  weeping,  moaning,  and  wringing  her 
hands. 

'‘Mother!”  The  feeble  voice  of  Willy  stilled, 
instantly,  the  tempest  of  feeling.  “ Mother,  kiss 
me!” 

She  bent  down  and  kissed  him. 

"Are  you  there,  mother?”  His  eyes  moved 
about,  with  a straining  motion. 

“ Yes,  love,  here  I am.” 

“ I don’t  see  you,  mother.  It’s  getting  so  dark. 
Oh,  mother!  mother!  ” he  shouted  suddenly,  start- 
ing up  and  throwing  himself  forward  upon  her 
bosom — “ save  me!  save  me!  ” 

How  quickly  did  the  mother  clasp  her  arms 
around  him — how  eagerly  did  she  strain  him  to 
her  bosom!  The  doctor,  fearing  the  worst  con- 
sequences, now  came  forward,  and  endeavored  to 
release  the  arms  of  Mrs.  Hammond,  but  she  re- 
sisted every  attempt  to  do  so. 

“ I will  save  you,  my  son,”  she  murmured  in 
the  ear  of  the  young  man.  “ Your  mother  will 
protect  you.  Oh!  if  you  had  never  left  her  side 
nothing  on  earth  could  have  done  you  harm.” 


NIGHT  THE  SEVENTH. 


139 

“ He  is  dead!  ” I heard  the  doctor  whisper;  and 
a thrill  of  horror  went  through  me.  The  words 
reached  the  ears  of  Mr.  Hammond,  and  his  groan 
was  one  of  almost  mortal  agony. 

“ Who  says  he  is  dead?”  came  sharply  from 
the  lips  of  the  mother,  as  she  pressed  the  form  of 
her  child  back  upon  the  bed  from  which  he  had 
sprung  to  her  arms,  and  looked  wildly  upon  his 
face.  One  long  scream  of  horror  told  of  her  con- 
victions, and  she  fell,  lifeless,  across  the  body  of 
her  dead  son! 

All  in  the  room  believed  that  Mrs.  Hammond 
had  only  fainted.  But  the  doctor's  perplexed, 
troubled  countenance,  as  he  ordered  her  carried 
into  another  apartment,  and  the  ghastliness  of 
her  face  when  it  was  upturned  to  the  light,  sug- 
gested to  every  one  what  proved  to  be  true.  Even 
to  her  obscured  perceptions,  the  consciousness 
that  her  son  was  dead  came  with  a terrible  vivid- 
ness— so  terrible,  that  it  extinguished  her  life. 

Like  fire  among  dry  stubble  ran  the  news  of 
this  fearful  event  through  Cedarville.  The  whole 
town  was  wild  with  excitement.  The  prominent 
fact,  that  Willy  Hammond  had  been  murdered  by 
Green,  whose  real  profession  was  known  by  many, 
and  now  declared  to  all,  was  on  every  tongue ; but 
a hundred  different  and  exaggerated  stories  as  to 
the  cause  and  the  particulars  of  the  event  were  in 
circulation.  By  the  time  preparations  to  remove 
the  dead  bodies  of  mother  and  son  from  the 
“ Sickle  and  Sheaf  ” to  the  residence  of  Mr.  Ham- 
mond were  completed,  hundreds  of  people,  men, 
women,  and  children,  were  assembled  around  the 
tavern;  and  many  voices  were  clamorous  for 
Green;  while  some  called  out  for  Judge  Lyman, 
whose  name,  it  thus  appeared,  had  become  asso- 
ciated in  the  minds  of  the  people  with  the  mur- 
derous affair.  The  appearance,  in  the  midst  of 


TEX  NIGHTS  IX  A BAR-ROOM. 


140 

this  excitement,  of  the  two  dead  bodies,  borne 
forth  on  settees,  did  not  tend  to  allay  the  feverish 
state  of  indignation  that  prevailed.  From  more 
than  one  voice,  I heard  the  words,  “ Lynch  the 
scoundrel!  ” 

A part  of  the  crowd  followed  the  sad  proces- 
sion, while  the  greater  portion,  consisting  of  men, 
remained  about  the  tavern.  All  bodies,  no  matter 
for  what  purpose  assembled,  quickly  find  leading 
spirits  who,  feeling  the  great  moving  impulse,  give 
it  voice  and  direction.  It  was  so  in  this  case.  In- 
tense indignation  against  Green  was  firing  every 
bosom;  and  when  a man  elevated  himself  a few 
feet  above  the  agitated  mass  of  humanity,  and 
cried  out: 

“ The  murderer  must  not  escape!  ” 

A wild,  responding  shout,  terrible  in  its  fierce- 
ness, made  the  air  quiver. 

“ Let  ten  men  be  chosen  to  search  the  house 
and  premises,”  said  the  leading  spirit. 

‘‘Ay!  ay!  Choose  them!  Name  them!”  was 
quickly  answered. 

Ten  men  were  called  by  name,  who  instantly 
stepped  in  front  of  the  crowd. 

“Search  everywhere;  from  garret  to  cellar; 
from  hayloft  to  dog-kennel.  Everywhere!  every- 
where!” cried  the  man. 

And  instantly  the  ten  men  entered  the  house. 
For  nearly  a quarter  of  an  hour,  the  crowd  waited 
with  increasing  signs  of  impatience.  These  dele- 
gates at  length  appeared,  with  the  announcement 
that  Green  was  nowhere  about  the  premises.  It 
was  received  with  a groan. 

“ Let  no  man  in  Cedarville  do  a stroke  of  work 
until  the  murderer  is  found,”  now  shouted  the 
individual  who  still  occupied  his  elevated  posi- 
tion. 


NIGHT  THE  SEVENTH . 141 

“ Agreed!  agreed!  No  work  in  Cedarville  until 
the  murderer  is  found,”  rang  out  fiercely. 

“ Let  all  who  have  horses,  saddle  and  bridle 
them  as  quickly  as  possible,  and  assemble,  mount- 
ed, at  the  Court  House.” 

About  fifty  men  left  the  crowd  hastily. 

“ Let  the  crowd  part  in  the  centre,  up  and  down 
the  road,  starting  from  a line  in  front  of  me.” 

This  order  was  obeyed. 

“ Separate  again,  taking  the  centre  of  the  road 
for  a line.” 

Four  distinct  bodies  of  men  stood  now  in  front 
of  the  tavern. 

“ Now  search  for  the  murderer  in  every  nook 
and  corner,  for  a distance  of  three  miles  from  this 
spot;  each  party  keeping  to  its  own  section;  the 
road  being  one  dividing  line,  and  a line  through 
the  centre  of  this  tavern  the  other.  The  horsemen 
will  pursue  the  wretch  to  a greater  distance.” 

More  than  a hundred  acquiescing  voices  re- 
sponded to  this,  as  the  man  sprung  down  from 
his  elevation  and  mingled  with  the  crowd,  which 
began  instantly  to  move  away  on  its  appointed 
mission. 

As  the  hours  went  by,  one,  and  another,  and 
another,  of  the  searching  party  returned  to  the 
village,  wearied  with  their  efforts,  or  confident 
that  the  murderer  had  made  good  his  escape.  The 
horsemen,  too,  began  to  come  in,  during  the  af- 
ternoon, and  by  sundown,  the  last  of  them,  worn 
out  and  disappointed,  made  their  appearance. 

For  hours  after  the  exciting  events  of  the  fore- 
noon, there  were  but  few  visitors  at  the  “ Sickle 
and  Sheaf.”  Slade,  who  did  not  show  himself 
among  the  crowd,  came  down  soon  after  its  dis- 
persion. He  had  shaved  and  put  on  clean  linen; 
but  still  bore  many  evidences  of  a night  spent 
without  sleep.  His  eyes  were  red  and  heavy  and 


142  ten  nights  in  a bar-room . 

the  eyelids  swollen;  while  his  skin  was  relaxed 
and  colorless.  As  he  descended  the  stairs,  I was 
walking  in  the  passage.  He  looked  shy  at  me, 
and  merely  nodded.  Guilt  was  written  plainly  on 
his  countenance;  and  with  it  was  blended  anxiety 
and  alarm.  That  he  might  be  involved  in  trouble, 
he  had  reason  to  fear;  for  he  was  one  of  the  party 
engaged  in  gambling  in  Green's  room,  as  both 
Mr.  Jacobs  and  I had  witnessed. 

“ This  is  dreadful  business,"  said  he,  as  we  met, 
face  to  face,  half  an  hour  afterward.  He  did  not 
look  me  steadily  in  the  eyes. 

“ It  is  horrible!  ” I answered.  “ To  corrupt  and 
ruin  a young  man,  and  then  murder  him!  There 
are  few  deeds  in  the  catalogue  of  crime  blacker 
than  this." 

“ It  was  done  in  the  heat  of  passion,"  said  the 
landlord,  with  something  of  apology  in  his  man- 
ner. “ Green  never  meant  to  kill  him." 

“ In  peaceful  intercourse  with  his  fellow-men, 
why  did  he  carry  a deadly  weapon?  There  was 
murder  in  his  heart,  sir." 

“ That  is  speaking  very  strongly." 

“ Not  stronger  than  facts  will  warrant,"  I re- 
plied. “ That  Green  is  a murderer  in  heart,  it 
needed  not  this  awful  consummation  to  show. 
With  a cool,  deliberate  purpose,  he  has  sought, 
from  the  beginning,  to  destroy  young  Ham- 
mond." 

“ It  is  hardly  fair,"  answered  Slade,  “ in  the 
present  feverish  excitement  against  Green,  to  as- 
sume such  a questionable  position.  It  may  do 
him  a great  wrong." 

“ Did  Willy  Hammond  speak  only  idle  words, 
when  he  accused  Green  of  having  followed  him 
like  a thirsty  bloodhound? — of  having  robbed,  and 
cheated,  and  debased  him  from  the  beginning?" 

“ He  was  terribly  excited  at  the  moment." 


l NIGHT  THE  SEVENTH.  143 

“Yet,”  said  I,  “no  ear  that  heard  his  words 
could  for  an  instant  doubt  that  they  were  truth- 
ful utterances,  wrung  from  a maddened  heart.” 

My  earnest,  positive  manner  had  its  effect  upon 
Slade.  He  knew  that  what  I asserted,  the  whole 
history  of  Green's  intercourse  with  young  Ham- 
mond would  prove;  and  he  had,  moreover,  the 
guilty  consciousness  of  being  a party  to  tjie  young 
man's  ruin.  His  eyes  cowered  beneath  the  steady 
gaze  I fixed  upon  him.  I thought  of  him  as  one 
implicated  in  the  murder,  and  my  thought  must 
have  been  visible  in  my  face. 

“ One  murder  will  not  justify  another,”  said  he. 

“There  is  no  justification  for  murder  on  any 
plea,”  was  my  response. 

“ And  yet,  if  these  infuriated  men  find  Green, 
they  will  murder  him.” 

“ I hope  not.  Indignation  at  a horrible  crime 
has  fearfully  excited  the  people.  But  I think  their 
sense  of  justice  is  strong  enough  to  prevent  the 
consequences  you  apprehend.” 

“ I would  not  like  to  be  in  Green's  shoes,”  said 
the  landlord,  with  an  uneasy  movement. 

I looked  him  closely  in  the  face.  It  was  the 
punishment  of  the  man's  crime  that  seemed  so 
fearful  in  his  eyes;  not  the  crime  itself.  Alas!  how 
the  corrupting  traffic  had  debased  him. 

My  words  were  so  little  relished  by  Slade,  that 
he  found  some  ready  excuse  to  leave  me.  I saw 
but  little  more  of  him  during  the  day. 

As  evening  began  to  fall,  the  gambler’s  unsuc- 
cessful pursuers,  one  after  another,  found  their 
way  to  the  tavern,  and  by  the  time  night  had  fairly 
closed  in,  the  bar-room  was  crowded  with  ex- 
cited and  angry  men,  chafing  over  their  disap- 
pointment, and  loud  in  their  threats  of  vengeance. 
That  Green  had  made  good  his  escape,  was  now 
the  general  belief;  and  the  stronger  this  convic- 


TEN  NIGHTS  IN  A BAR-ROOM . 


144 

tion  became,  the  more  steadily  did  the  current  of 
passion  begin  to  set  in  a new  direction.  It  had 
become  known  to  every  one  that,  besides  Green 
and  young  Hammond,  Judge  Lyman  and  Slade 
were  in  the  room  engaged  in  playing  cards.  The 
merest  suggestion  as  to  the  complicity  of  these 
two  men  with  Green  in  ruining  Hammond,  and 
thus  driving  him  mad,  was  enough  to  excite 
strong  feeling  against  them;  and  now  that  the 
mob  had  been  cheated  of  its  victim,  its  pent-up 
indignation  sought  eagerly  some  neW  channel. 

“Where’s  Slade?”  some  one  asked,  in  a loud 
voice,  from  the  centre  of  the  crowded  bar-room. 
“ Why  does  he  keep  himself  out  of  sight?  ” 

“Yes;  where’s  the  landlord?”  half  a dozen 
voices  responded. 

“ Did  he  go  on  the  hunt?  ” some  one  inquired. 

“ No!  ” “ No!  ” “ No!  ” ran  around  the  room. 
“ Not  he.” 

“ And  yet,  the  murder  was  committed  in  his 
own  house,  and  before  his  own  eyes!  ” 

“ Yes,  before  his  own  eyes!  ” repeated  one  and 
another,  indignantly. 

“Where’s  Slade?  Where’s  the  landlord?  Has 
anybody  seen  him  to-night?  Matthew,  where’s 
Simon  Slade?  ” 

From  lip  to  lip  passed  these  interrogations1, 
while  the  crowd  of  men  became  agitated,  and 
swayed  to  and  fro. 

“ I don’t  think  he’s  home,”  answered  the  bar- 
keeper, in  a hesitating  manner,  and  with  visible 
alarm. 

“ How  long  since  he  was  here?  ” 

“ I haven’t  seen  him  for  a couple  of  hours.” 

“ That’s  a lie!  ” was  sharply  said. 

“Who  says  it’s  a lie?”  Matthew  affected  to 
be  strongly  indignant. 


NIGHT  THE  SEVENTH.  145 

“ I do!  ” And  a rough,  fierce-looking  man  con- 
fronted him. 

“ What  right  have  you  to  say  so? " asked  Mat- 
thew, cooling  off  considerably. 

“ Because  you  lie!"  said  the  man,  boldly. 
“ You've  seen  him  within  a less  time  than  half 
an  hour,  and  well  you  know  it.  Now,  if  you  wish 
to  keep  yourself  out  of  this  trouble,  answer  truly. 
We  are  in  no  mood  to  deal  with  liars  or  equivoca- 
tors.  Where  is  Simon  Slade?  ” 

“ I do  not  know,"  replied  Matthew,  firmly. 

“ Is  he  in  the  house?  " 

“ He  may  be,  or  he  may  not  be.  I am  just  as 
ignorant  of  his  exact  whereabouts  as  you  are." 

“ Will  you  look  for  him?  " 

Matthew  stepped  to  the  door,  opening  from  be- 
hind the  bar,  and  called  the  name  of  Frank. 

“ What's  wanted?  " growled  the  boy. 

“ Is  your  father  in  the  house?  " 

“ I don't  know,  nor  don’t  care,"  was  responded 
in  the  same  ungracious  manner. 

“ Some  one  bring  him  into  the  bar-room,  and 
we’ll  see  if  we  can’t  make  him  care  a little." 

The  suggestion  was  no  sooner  made,  than  two 
men  glided  behind  the  bar,  and  passed  into  the 
room  from  which  the  voice  of  Frank  had  issued. 
A moment  after  they  reappeared,  each  grasping 
an  arm  of  the  boy,  and  bearing  him  like  a weak 
child  between  them.  He  looked  thoroughly  fright- 
ened at  this  unlooked-for  invasion  of  his  liberty. 

“ See  here,  young  man."  One  of  the  leading 
spirits  of  the  crowd  addressed  him,  as  soon  as  he 
was  brought  in  front  of  the  counter.  “ If  you 
wish  to  keep  out  of  trouble,  answer  our  questions 
at  once,  and  to  the  point.  We  are  in  no  mood 
for  trifling.  Where’s  your  father?  " 

Somewhere  about  the  house,  I believe,"  Frank 
replied,  in  an  humbled  tone.  He  was  no  little 


TEN  NIGHTS  IN  A BAR-ROOM. 


146 

scared  at  the  summary  manner  with  which  he  had 
been  treated. 

“ How  long  since  you  saw  him?” 

“ Not  long  ago/’ 

“ Ten  minutes?  ” 

“ No;  nearly  half  an  hour.” 

“ Where  was  he  then?  ” 

“ He  was  going  up-stairs.” 

“ Very  well,  we  want  him.  See  him,  and  tell 
him  so.” 

Frank  went  into  the  house,  but  came  back  into 
the  bar-room  after  an  absence  of  nearly  five  min- 
utes, and  said  that  he  could  not  find  his  father 
anywhere. 

“ Where  is  he  then?  ” was  angrily  demanded. 

“ Indeed,  gentlemen,  I don’t  know.”  Frank’s 
anxious  look  and  frightened  manner  showed  that 
he  spoke  truly. 

“ There’s  something  wrong  about  this — some- 
thing wrong — wrong,”  said  one  of  the  men. 
“ Why  should  he  be  absent  now?  Why  has  he 
taken  no  steps  to  secure  the  man  who  committed 
a murder  in  his  own  house,  and  before  his  own 
eyes?” 

“ I shouldn’t  wonder  if  he  aided  him  to  es- 
cape,” said  another,  making  this  serious  charge 
with  a restlessness  and  want  of  evidence  that  illus- 
trated the  reckless  and  unjust  spirit  by  which  a 
mob  is  ever  governed. 

“ No  doubt  of  it  in  the  least!  ” was  the  quick 
and  positive  response.  And  at  once  this  erro- 
neous conviction  seized  upon  every  one.  Not  ? 
single  fact  was  presented.  The  simple,  bold  as- 
sertion, that  no  doubt  existed  in  the  mind  of  one 
man  as  to  Slade’s  having  aided  Green  to  escape, 
was  sufficient  for  the  unreflecting  mob. 

“ Where  is  he?  Where  is  he?  Let  us  find  him. 


NIGHT  THE  SEVENTH . 147 

He  knows  where  Green  is,  and  he  shall  reveal 
the  secret.” 

This  was  enough.  The  passions  of  the  crowd 
were  at  fever  heat  again.  Two  or  three  men  were 
chosen  to  search  the  house  and  premises,  while 
others  dispersed  to  take  a wider  range.  One  of 
the  men  who  volunteered  to  go  over  the  house 
was  a person  named  Lyon,  with  whom  I had 
formed  some  acquaintance,  and  several  times  con- 
versed with  on  the  state  of  affairs  in  Cedarville. 
He  still  remained  too  good  a customer  at  the 
bar.  I left  the  bar  at  the  same  time  that  he  did, 
and  went  up  to  my  room.  We  walked  side  by 
side,  and  parted  at  my  door,  I going  in,  and  he 
continuing  on  to-  make  his  searches.  I felt,  of 
course,  anxious  and  much  excited,  as  well  in  con- 
sequence of  the  events  of  the  day,  as  the  present 
aspect  of  things.  My  head  was  aching  violently, 
and  in  the  hope  of  getting  relief,  I laid  myself 
down.  I had  already  lighted  a candle,  and  turned 
the  key  in  my  door  to  prevent  intrusion.  Only 
for  a short  time  did  I lie,  listening  to  the  hum  of 
voices  that  came  with  a hoarse  murmur  from 
below,  to  the  sound  of  feet  moving  along  the  pas- 
sages, and  to  the  continual  opening  and  shutting 
of  doors,  when  something  like  suppressed  breath- 
ing reached  my  ears.  I started  up  instantly,  and 
listened ; but  my  quickened  pulses  were  now  audi- 
ble to  my  own  sense,  and  obscured  what  was  ex- 
ternal. 

“ It  is  only  imagination,”  I said  to  myself.  Still, 
I sat  upright,  listening. 

Satisfied,  at  length,  that  all  was  mere  fancy,  I 
laid  myself  back  on  the  pillow,  and  tried  to  turn 
my  thoughts  away  from  the  suggested  idea  that 
some  one  was  in  the  room.  Scarcely  had  I suc- 
ceeded in  this,  when  my  heart  gave  a new  impulse, 
as  a sound  like  a movement  fell  upon  my  ears. 


TEN  NIGHTS  IN  A BAR-ROOM . 


148 

- “Mere  fancy!”  I said  to  myself,  as  some  one 
went  past  the  door  at  the  moment.  “ My  mind  is 
over-excited.” 

Still  I raised  my  head,  supporting  it  with  my 
hand,  and  listened,  directing  my  attention  inside, 
and  not  outside  of  the  room.  I was  about  letting 
my  head  fall  back  upon  the  pillow,  when  a slight 
cough,  so  distinct  as  not  to  be  mistaken,  caused 
me  to  spring  to  the  floor,  and  look  under  the  bed. 
The  mystery  was  explained.  A pair  of  eyes  glit- 
tered in  the  candlelight.  The  fugitive,  Green,  was 
under  my  bed.  For  some  moments  I stood  looking 
at  him,  so  astonished  that  I had  neither  utterance 
nor  decision;  while  he  glared  at  me  with  a fierce 
defiance.  I saw  that  he  was  clutching  a revolver. 

“Understand!”  he  said,  in  a grating  whisper, 
“ that  I am  not  to  be  taken  alive.” 

. I let  the  blanket,  which  had  concealed  him  from 
view,  fall  from  my  hand,  and  then  tried  to  collect 
my  thoughts. 

“ Escape  is  impossible,”  said  I,  again  lifting  the 
temporary  curtain  by  which  he  was  hid.  “ The 
whole  town  is  armed,  and  on  the  search;  and 
should  you  fall  into  the  hands  of  the  mob,  in  its 
present  state  of  exasperation,  your  life  would  not. 
be  safe  an  instant.  Remain,  then,  quiet,  where 
you  are,  until  I can  see  the  sheriff,  to  whom  you 
had  better  resign  yourself,  for  there's  little  chance 
for  you  except  under  his  protection.” 

After  a brief  parley,  he  consented  that  things 
should  take  this  course,  and  I went  out,  locking 
the  room  door  after  me,  and  started  in  search  of 
the  sheriff.  On  the  information  I gave,  the  sheriff 
acted  promptly.  With  five  officers,  fully  armed 
for  defense,  in  case  an  effort  were  made  to  get  the 
prisoner  out  of  their  hands,  he  repaired  imme- 
diately to  the  “ Sickle  and  Sheaf.”  I had  given 
the  key  of  my  room  into  his  possession. 


NIGHT  THE  SEVENTH. 


149 

The  appearance  of  the  sheriff,  with  his  posse , 
was  sufficient  to  start  the  suggestion  that  Green 
was  somewhere  concealed  in  the  house;  and  a 
suggestion  was  only  needed  to  cause  the  fact  to 
be  assumed,  and  unhesitatingly  declared.  Intelli- 
gence went  through  the  reassembling  crowd  like 
an  electric  current,  and  ere  the  sheriff  could  man- 
acle and  lead  forth  his  prisoner,  the  stairway  down 
which  he  had  to  come  was  packed  with  bodies, 
and  echoing  with  oaths  and  maledictions. 

“ Gentlemen,  clear  the  way!  ” cried  the  sheriff, 
as  he  appeared  with  the  white  and  trembling  cul- 
prit at  the  head  of  the  stairs.  “ The  murderer  is 
now  in  the  hands  of  the  law,  and  will  meet  the 
sure  consequences  of  his  crime.” 

A shout  of  execration  rent  the  air;  but  not  a 
single  individual  stirred. 

“ Give  way,  there!  Give  way!  ” And  the  sheriff 
took  a step  or  two  forward,  but  the  prisoner  held 
back. 

“ Oh,  the  murdering  villain!  The  cursed  black- 
leg! Where’s  Willy  Hammond?”  was  heard  dis- 
tinctly above  the  confused  mingling  of  voices. 

“ Gentlemen!  the  law  must  have  its  course;  and 
no  good  citizen  will  oppose  the  law.  It  is  made 
for  your  protection — for  mine — and  for  that  of  the 
prisoner.” 

“ Lynch  law  is  good  enough  for  him,”  shouted 
a savage  voice.  “ Hand  him  over  to  us,  sheriff, 
and  we’ll  save  you  the  trouble  of  hanging  hkn, 
and  the  county  the  cost  of  a gallows.  .We’ll  do 
the  business  right.” 

Five  men,  each  armed  with  a revolver,  now 
ranged  themselves  around  the  sheriff,  and  the 
latter  said  firmly : 

“ It  is  my  duty  to  see  this  man  safely  conveyed 
to  prison;  and  I’m  going-  to  do  my  duty.  If  there 
is  any  more  blood  shed  here,  the  blame  will  rest 


150  TEN  nights  in  a bar-room. 

with  you.”  And  the  body  of  officers  pressed  for- 
ward, the  mob  slowly  retreating  before  them. 

Green,  overwhelmed  with  terror,  held  back.  I 
was  standing  where  I could  see  his  face.  It  was 
ghastly  with  mortal  fear.  Grasping  his  pinioned 
arms,  the  sheriff  forced  him  onward.  After  con- 
tending with  the  crowd  for  nearly  ten  minutes, 
the  officers  gained  the  passage  below;  but  the 
mob  was  denser  here,  and,  blocking  up  the  door, 
resolutely  maintained  their  position. 

Again  and  again  the  sheriff  appealed  to  the 
good  sense  and  justice  of  the  people. 

“ The  prisoner  will  have  to  stand  a trial  and 
the  law  will  execute  sure  vengeance.” 

“ No,  it  won’t!  ” was  sternly  responded. 

“ Who’ll  be  judge  in  the  case?  ” was  asked. 

“Why,  Judge  Lyman!”  was  contemptuously 
answered. 

“ A blackleg  himself!  ” was  shouted  by  two  or 
three  voices. 

“Blackleg  judge,  and  blackleg  lawyers!  Oh, 
yes!  The  law  will  execute  sure  vengeance!  Who 
was  in  the  room  gambling  with  Green  and  Ham- 
mond? ” 

“Judge  Lyman!”  “Judge  Lyman!”  was  an- 
swered back. 

“ It  won’t  do',  sheriff!  There’s  no  law  in  the 
country  to  reach  the  case  but  Lynch  law;  and 
that  the  scoundrel  must  have.  Give  him  to  us!  ” 
* “ Never!  On,  men,  with  the  prisoner!  ” cried 
the  sheriff  resolutely,  and  the  posse  made  a rush 
toward  the  door,  bearing  back  the  resisting  and 
now  infuriated  crowd.  Shouts,  cries,  oaths,  and 
savage  imprecations  blended  in  wild  discord;  in 
the  midst  of  which  my  blood  was  chilled  by  the 
sharp  crack  of  a pistol.  Another  and  another  shot 
followed;  and  then,  as  a cry  of  pain  thrilled  the 
air,  the  fierce  storm  hushed  its  fury  in  an  instant. 


NIGHT  THE  SEVENTH. 


151 


“ Who's  shot?  Is  he  killed?” 

There  was  a breathless  eagerness  for  the  an- 
swer. 

“ It's  the  gambler!  ” was  replied.  “ Somebody 
has  shot  Green.” 

A low  muttered  invective  against  the  victim  was 
heard  here  and  there;  but  the  announcement  was 
not  received  with  a shout  of  exultation,  though 
there  was  scarcely  a heart  that  did  not  feel  pleas- 
ure at  the  sacrifice  of  Harvey  Green's  life. 

It  was  true  as  had  been  declared.  Whether 
the  shot  were  aimed  deliberately,  or  guided  by  an 
unseen  hand  to  the  heart  of  the  gambler,  was 
never  known;  nor  did  the  most  careful  exami- 
nation, instituted  afterward  by  the  county,  elicit 
any  information  that  even  directed  suspicion  to- 
ward the  individual  who  became  the  agent  of  his 
death. 

At  the  coroner's  inquest,  held  over  the  dead 
body  of  Harvey  Green,  Simon  Slade  was  present. 
Where  he  had  concealed  himself  while  the  mob 
were  in  search  of  him,  was  not  known.  He  looked 
haggard;  and  his  eyes  were  anxious  and  restless. 
Two  murders  in  his  house,  occurring  in  a single 
day,  were  quite  enough  to  darken  his  spirits;  and 
the  more  so,  as  his  relations  with  both  the  victims 
were  not  of  a character  to  awaken  any  thing  but 
self-accusation. 

As  for  the  mob,  in  the  death  of  Green  its  eager 
thirst  for  vengeance  was  satisfied.  Nothing  more 
was  said  against  Slade,  as  a participator  in  the 
ruin  and  death  of  young  Hammond.  The  popular 
feeling  was  one  of  pity  rather  than  indignation 
toward  the  landlord;  for  it  was  seen  that  he  was 
deeply  troubled. 

One  thing  I noticed,  and  it  was  that  the  drink- 
ing at  the  bar  was  not  suspended  for  a moment. 
A large  proportion  of  those  who  made  up  the 


TEN  NIGHTS  IN  A BAR-ROOM. 


152 

crowd  of  Green’s  angry  pursuers  were  excited  by 
drin Y as  well  as  indignation,  and  I am  very  sure 
that,  but  for  the  maddening  effects  of  liquor,  the 
fatal  shot  would  never  have  been  fired.  After  the 
fearful  catastrophe,  and  when  every  mind  was 
sobered,  or  ought  to  have  been  sobered,  the  crowd 
returned  to  the  bar-room,  where  the  drinking  was 
renewed.  So  rapid  were  the  calls-for  liquor,  that 
both  Matthew  and  Frank,  the  landlord’s  son,  w^re 
kept  busy  mixing  the  various  compounds  de- 
manded by  the  thirsty  customers. 

From  the  constant  stream  of  human  beings  that 
flowed  toward  the  “ Sickle  and  Sheaf,”  after  the 
news  of  Green’s  discovery  and  death  went  forth, 
it  seemed  as  if  every  man  and  boy  within  a dis- 
tance of  two  or  three  miles  had  received  intelli- 
gence of  the  event.  Few,  very,  of  those  who 
came,  but  went  first  into  the  bar-room ; and  nearly 
all  who  entered  the  bar-room  called  for  liquor.  In 
an  hour  after  the  death  of  Green,  tHe  fact  that  his 
dead  body  was  laid  out  in  the  room  immediately 
adjoining,  seemed  utterly  to  pass  from  the  con- 
sciousness of  every  one  in  the  bar.  The  calls  for 
liquor  were  incessant;  and,  as  the  excitement  of 
drink  increased,  voices  grew  louder,  and  oaths 
more  plentiful,  while  the  sounds  of  laughter  ceased 
not  for  an  instant. 

“They’re  giving  him  a regular  Irish -wake,”  I 
heard  remarked,  with  a brutal  laugh. 

I turned  to  the  speaker,  and,  to  my  great  sur- 
prise, saw  that  it  was  Judge  Lyman,  more  under 
the  influence'  of  drink  than  I remembered  to  have 
seen  him.  He  was  about  the  last  man  I expected 
to  find  here.  If  he  knew  of  the  strong  indigna- 
tion expressed  toward  him  a little  while  before, 
by  some  of  the  very  men  now  excited  with  liq- 
uor, his  own  free  drinking  had  extinguished  fear. 

“ Yes,  curse  him!  ” was  the  answer.  “ If  they 


NIGHT  THE  SEVENTH. 


153 

have  a particularly  hot  corner  ‘ away  down  be- 
low/ I hope  he's  made  its  acquaintance  before 
this.” 

“ Most  likely  he's  smelled  brimstone/'  chuckled 
the  judge. 

“Smelled  it!  If  Old  Clubfoot  hasn't  treated 
him  with  a brimstone-bath  long  before  this,  he 
hasn't  done  his  duty.  If  I thought  as  much,  I'd 
vote  for  sending  his  majesty  a remonstrance  forth- 
with." 

“ Ha!  ha!  " laughed  the  judge.  “ You’re  warm 
on  the  subject." 

“Ain't  I?  The  blackleg  scoundrel!  Hell's  too 
good  for  him." 

“ H-u-s-h!  Don't  let  your  indignation  run  into 
profanity,"  said  Judge  Lyman,  trying  to  assume 
a serious  air;  but  the  muscles  of  his  face  but  feebly 
obeyed  his  will's  feeble  effort. 

“Profanity!  Poh!  I don't  call  that  profanity. 
It's  only  speaking  out  in  meeting,  as  they  say, — 
it's  only  calling  black,  black — and  white,  white. 
You  believe  in  a hell,  don't  you,  judge?  " 

“ I suppose  there  is  one ; though  I don't  know 
very  certain." 

“You'd  better  be  certain!"  said  the  other, 
meaningly. 

“ Why  so?  " 

“Oh!  because  if  there  is  one,  and  you  don't 
cut  your  cards  a little  differently,  you'll  be  apt  to 
find  it  at  the  end  of  your  journey." 

“ What  do  you  mean  by  that?  " asked  the  judge, 
retreating  somewhat  into  himself,  and  trying  to 
look  dignified. 

“ Just  what  I say,"  was  unhesitatingly  an- 
swered. 

“ Do  you  mean  to  insinuate  any  thing?  " asked 
the  judge,  whose  brows  were  beginning  to  knit 
themselves. 


154 


TEX  XIGHTS  IX  A BAR-ROOM. 


“ Nobody  thinks  you  a saint,”  replied  the  man 
roughly. 

“ I never  professed  to  be.” 

“ And  it  is  said  ” — the  man  fixed  his  gaze  al- 
most insultingly  upon  Judge  Lyman’s  face — “ that 
you’ll  get  about  as  hot  a corner  in  the  lower  re- 
gions as  is  to  be  found  there,  whenever  you  make 
the  journey  in  that  direction.” 

“ You  are  insolent!  ” exclaimed  the  judge,  his 
face  becoming  inflamed. 

“ Take  care  what  you  say,  sir!”  The  man 
spoke  threateningly. 

“ You’d  better  take  care  what  you  say.” 

“ So  I will,”  replied  the  other.  “ But ” 

“ What’s  to  pay  here?”  inquired  a third  party, 
coming  up  at  the  moment,  and  interrupting  the 
speaker. 

“ The  devil  will  be  to  pay,”  said  Judge  Lyman, 
“ if  somebody  don’t  look  out  sharp.” 

“ Do  you  mean  that  for  me,  ha?  ” The  man, 
between  whom  and  himself  this  slight  contention 
had  so  quickly  sprung  up,  began  stripping  back 
his  coat  sleeves,  like  one  about  to  commence  box- 
ing. 

“ I mean  it  for  anybody  who  presumes  to  offer 
me  an  insult.” 

The  raised  voices  of  the  two  men  now  drew 
•toward  them  the  attention  of  every  one  in  the  bar- 
room. 

“ The  devil!  There’s  Judge  Lyman!”  I heard 
some  one  exclaim,  in  a tone  of  surprise. 

“ Wasn’t  he  in  the  room  with  Green  when 
Willy  Hammond  was  murdered?  ” asked  another. 

“ Yes,  he  was;  and  what’s  more,  it  is  said  he 
had  been  playing  against  him  all  night,  he  and 
Green  sharing  the  plunder.” 

This  last  remark  came  distinctly  to  the  ears  of 


NIGHT  THE  SEVENTH.  155 

Lyman,  who  started  to  his  feet  instantly  exclaim- 
ing fiercely : 

“ Whoever  says  that  is  a cursed  liar!  ” 

The  words  were  scarcely  out  of  his  mouth,  be- 
fore a blow  staggered  him  against  the  wall,  near 
which  he  was  standing.  Another  blow  felled  him, 
and  then  his  assailant  sprang  over  his  prostrate 
body,  kicking  him,  and  stamping  upon  his  face 
and  breast  in  the  most  brutal,  shocking  manner. 

“Kill  him!  He's  worse  than  Green!"  some- 
body cried  out,  in  a voice  so  full  of  cruelty  and 
murder  that  it  made  my  blood  curdle.  “ Remem- 
ber Willy  Hammond!  " 

The  terrible  scene  that  followed,  in  which  were 
heard  a confused  mingling  of  blows,  cries,  yells, 
and  horrible  oaths,  continued  for  several  minutes, 
and  ceased  only  when  the  words — “ Don't  strike 
him  any  more!  He's  dead!  " were  repeated  sev- 
eral times.  Then  the  wild  strife  subsided.  As  the 
crowd  parted  from  around  the  body  of  Judge  Ly- 
man, and  gave  way,  I caught  a single  glance  at 
his  face.  It  was  covered  with  blood,  and  every 
feature  seemed  to  have  been  literally  trampled 
down,  until  all  was  a level  surface!  Sickened  at 
the  sight,  I passed  hastily  from  the  room  into  the 
open  air,  and  caught  my  breath  several  times, 
before  respiration  again  went  on  freely.  As  I 
stood  in  front  of  the  tavern,  the  body  of  Judge 
Lyman  was  borne  out  by  three  or  four  men,  and 
carried  off  in  the  direction  of  his  dwelling. 

“ Is  he  dead? " I inquired  of  those  who  had 
him  in  charge. 

“ No,"  was  the  .answer.  “ He's  not  dead,  but 
terribly  beaten,"  and  they  passed  on. 

Again  the  loud  voices  of  men  in  angry  strife 
arose  in  the  bar-room.  I did  not  return  there 
to  learn  the  cause,  or  to  witness  the  fiend-like  con- 
duct of  men,  all  whose  worst  passions  were  stim- 


156  TEN  nights  in  a bar-room. 

ulated  by  drink  into  the  wildest  fervor.  As  1 was 
entering  my  room,  the  thought  flashed  through 
my  mind  that,  as  Green  was  found  there,  it  needed 
only  the  bare  suggestion  that  I had  aided  in  his 
concealment,  to  direct  toward  me  the  insane  fury 
of  the  drunken  mob. 

“ It  is  not  safe  to  remain  here/'  I said  this  to 
myself,  with  the  emphasis  of  a strong  internal 
conviction. 

Against  this,  my  mind  opposed  a few  feeble  ar- 
guments; but  the  more  I thought  of  the  matter, 
the  more  clearly  did  I become  satisfied,  that  to 
attempt  to  pass  the  night  in  that  room  was  to  me 
a risk  it  was  not  prudent  to  assume. 

So  I went  in  search  of  Mrs.  Slade,  to  ask  her 
to  have  another  room  prepared  for  me.  But  she 
was  not  in  the  house;  and  I learned,  upon  in- 
quiry, that  since  the  murder  of  young  Hammond, 
she  had  been,  suffering  from  repeated  hysterical 
and  fainting  fits,  and  was  now,  with  her  daugh- 
ter, at  the  house  of  a relative,  whither  she  had 
been  carried  early  in  the  afternoon. 

It  was  on  my  lip  to  request  the  chambermaid 
to  give  me  another  room;  but  this  I felt  to  be 
scarcely  prudent,  for  if  the  popular  indignation 
should  happen  to  turn  toward  me,  the  servant 
would  be  the  one  questioned,  most  likely,  as  to 
where  I had  removed  my  quarters. 

“ It  isn't  safe  to  stay  in  the  house,"  said  I,  speak- 
ing to  myself.  “ Two,  perhaps  three,  murders 
have  been  committed  already.  The  tiger's  thirst 
for  blood  has  been  stimulated,  and  who  can  tell 
how  quickly  he  may  spring  again,  or  in  what  di- 
rection? " 

Even  while  I said  this,  there  came  up  from  the 
bar-room  louder  and  madder  shouts.  Then  blows 
were  heard,  mingled  with  cries  and  oaths.  A 
shuddering  sense  of  danger  oppressed  me,  and  I 


NIGHT  THE  SEVENTH. 


157 

went  hastily  down-stairs,  and  out  into  the  street. 
As  I gained  the  passage,  I looked  into  the  sitting- 
room,  where  the  body  of  Green  was  laid  out.  Just 
then,  the  bar-room  door  was  burst  open  by  a 
fighting  party,  who  had  been  thrown,  in  their 
fierce  contention,  against  it.  I paused  only  for  a 
moment  or  two;  and  even  in  that  brief  period  of 
time,  saw  blows  exchanged  over  the  dead  body  of 
the  gambler! 

“ This  is  no  place  for  me,”  I said,  almost  aloud, 
and  hurried  from  the  house,  and  took  my  way  to 
the  residence  of  a gentleman  who  had  shown  me 
many  kindnesses  during  my  visits  at  Cedarville. 
There  was  needed  scarcely  a word  of  representa- 
tion on  my  part,  to  secure  the  cordial  tender  of  a 
bed. 

What  a change!  It  seemed  almost  like  a pas- 
sage from  Pandemonium  to  a heavenly  region,  as 
I seated  myself  alone  in  the  quiet  chamber  a 
cheerful  hospitality  had  assigned  me,  and  mused 
on  the  exciting  and  terrible  incidents  of  the  day. 
They  that  sow  the  wind  shall  reap  the  whirlwind. 
How  marked  had  been  the  realization  of  this 
prophecy,  couched  in  such  strong  but  beautiful 
imagery ! 

On  the  next  day  I was  to  leave  Cedarville. 
Early  in  the  morning  I repaired  to  the  “ Sickle 
and  Sheaf.”  The  storm  was  over,  and  all  was 
calm  and  silent  as  desolation,  Hours  before,  the 
tempest  had  subsided;  but  the  evidences  left  be- 
hind of  its  ravaging  fury  were  fearful  to  look  upon. 
Doors,  chairs,  windows,  and  tables  were  broken, 
and  even  the  strong  brass  rod  that  ornamented 
the  bar  had  been  partially  wrenched  from  its  fast- 
enings by  strong  hands,  under  an  impulse  of  mur- 
der, that  only  lacked  a weapon  to  execute  its  fiend- 
ish purpose.  Stains  of  blood,  in  drops,  marks,  and 
even  dried-up  pools,  were  to  be  seen  all  over  the 


158  TEN  nights  in  a bar-room. 

bar-room  and  passage  floors,  and  in  many  places 
on  the  porch. 

In  the  sitting-room  still  lay  the  body  of  Green. 
Here,  too,  were  many  signs  to  indicate  a fierce 
struggle.  The  looking-glass  was  smashed  to  a 
hundred  pieces,  and  the  shivered  fragments  lay 
yet  untouched  upon  the  floor.  A chair,  which  it 
was  plain  had  been  used  as  a weapon  of  assault, 
had  two  of  its  legs  broken  short  off,  and  was 
thrown  into  a corner.  And  even  the  bearers  on 
which  the  dead  man  lay  were  pushed  from  their 
true  position,  showing  that  even  in  its  mortal 
sleep,  the  body  of  Green  had  felt  the  jarring  strife 
of  elements  he  had  himself  helped  to  awaken  into 
mad  activity.  From  his  face,  the  sheet  had  been 
drawn  aside;  but  no  hand  ventured  to  replace  it; 
and  there  it  lay,  in  its  ghastly  paleness,  exposed 
to  the  light,  and  covered  with  restless  flies,  at- 
tracted by  the  first  faint  odors  of  putridity.  With 
gaze  averted,  I approached  the  body,  and  drew 
the  covering  decently  over  it. 

No  person  was  in  the  bar.  I went  out  into  the 
stable  yard,  where  I met  the  hostler  with  his  head 
bound  up.  There  was  a dark  blue  circle  around 
one  of  his  eyes,  and  an  ugly-looking  red  scar  on 
his  cheek. 

“ Where  is  Mr.  Slade?  ” I inquired. 

“ In  bed,  and  likely  to  keep  it  for  a week/’  was 
answered. 

“ How  comes  that?  ” 

“ Naturally  enough.  There  was  fighting  all 
around  last  night,  and  he  had  to  come  in  for  a 
share.  The  fool!  If  he’d  just  held  his  tongue,  he 
might  have  come  out  of  it  with  a whole  skin.  But, 
when  the  rum  is  in,  the  wit  is  out,  with  him.  It’s 
cost  me  a black  eye  and  a broken  head;  for  how 
could  I stand  by  and  see  him  murdered  outright?  ” 

“ Is  he  very  badly  injured?  ” 


NIGHT  THE  SEVENTH.  159 

“ I rather  think  he  is.  One  e)^e  is  clean  gone.” 
“Oh,  shocking!” 

“ It’s  shocking  enough,  and  no  mistake.” 

“ Lost  an  eye?  ” 

“ Too  true,  sir.  The  doctor  saw  him  this  morn- 
ing, and  says  the  eye  was  fairly  gouged  out,  and 
broken  up.  In  fact,  when  we  carried  him  up- 
stairs for  dead,  last  night,  his  eye  was  lying  upon 
his  cheek.  I pushed  it  back  with  my  own  hand!  ” 
“Oh,  horrible!”  The  relation  made  me  sick. 
‘ Is  he  otherwise  much  injured?  ” 

“ The  doctor  thinks  there  are  some  bad  hurts 
inside.  Why,  they  kicked  and  trampled  upon 
him,  as  if  he  had  been  a wild  beast!  I never  saw 
such  a pack  of  blood-thirsty  devils  in  my  life.” 

“ So  much  for  rum,”  said  I. 

“ Yes,  sir;  so  much  for  rum,”  was  the  emphatic 
response.  “ It  was  the  rum,  and  nothing  else. 
Why,  some  of  the  very  men  who  acted  the  most 
like  tigers  and  devils,  are  as  harmless  persons  as 
you  will  find  in  Cedarville  when  sober.  Yes,  sir; 
it  was  the  rum,  and  nothing  else.  Rum  gave  me 
this  broken  head  and  black  eye.” 

“ So  you  had  been  drinking  also?  ” 

“ Oh,  yes.  There's  no  use  in  denying  that.” 

“ Liquor  does  you  harm.” 

“ Nobody  knows  that  better  than  I do.” 

“Why  do  you  drink,  then?” 

“ Oh,  just  because  it  comes  in  the  way.  Liquor 
is  under  my  eyes  and  nose  all  the  time,  and  it's 
as  natural  as  breathing  to  take  a little  now  and 
then.  And  when  I don't  think  of  it  myself,  some- 
body will  think  of  it  for  me,  and  say — 6 Come, 
Sam,  let's  take  something.'  So  you  see,  for  a 
body  such  as  I am,  there  isn't  much  help  for  it.” 

“ But  ain't  you  afraid  to  go  on  in  this  way? 
Don't  you  know  where  it  will  all  end?” 

“ Just  as  well  as  anybody.  It  will  make  an  end 


TEN  NIGHTS  IN  A BAR-ROOM. 


160 

of  me — or  of  all  that  is  good  in  me.  Rum  and 
ruin,  you  know,  sir.  They  go  together  like  twin 
brothers.” 

“ Why  don’t  you  get  out  of  the  way  of  tempta- 
tion?” said  I. 

“ It’s  easy  enough  to  ask  that  question,  sir;  but 
how  am  I to  get  out  of  the  way  of  temptation? 
Where  shall  I go,  and  not  find  a bar  in  my  road, 
and  somebody  to  say — ‘ Come,  Sam,  let’s  take  a 
drink?’  It  can’t  be  done,  sir,  nohow.  I’m  a 
hostler,  and  don’t  know  how  to  be  anything  else.” 
“ Can’t  you  work  on  a farm?  ” 

“ Yes;  I can  do  something  in  that  way.  But, 
when  there  are  taverns  and  bar-rooms,  as  many 
as  three  or  four  in  every  mile  all  over  the  coun- 
try, how  are  you  to  keep  clear  of  them?  Figure 
me  out  that.” 

u I think  you’d  better  vote  on  the  Maine  Law 
side  at  next  election,”  said  I. 

“ Faith,  and  I did  it  last  time!”  replied  the 
man,  with  a brightening  face — “ and  if  I’m  spared, 
I’ll  go  the  same  ticket  next  year.” 

“ What  do  you  think  of  the  Law?  ” I asked. 

“ Think  of  it!  Bless  your  heart!  if  I was  a pray- 
ing man,  which  I’m  sorry  to  say  I ain’t — my 
mother  was  a pious  woman,  sir  ” — his  voice  fell 
and  slightly  trembled — “ if  I was  a praying  man, 
sir,  I’d  pray,  night  and  morning,  and  twenty  times 
every  day  of  my  life,  for  God  to  put  it  into  the 
hearts  of  the  people  to  give  us  that  Law.  I’d  have 
some  hope  then.  But  I haven’t  much  as  it  is. 
There’s  no  use  in  trying  to  let  liquor  alone.” 

“ Do  many  drinking  men  think  as  you  do?  ” 

“ I can  count  up  a dozen  or  two  myself.  It  isn’t 
the  drinking  men  who  are  so  much  opposed  to 
the  Maine  Law  as  your  politicians.  They  throw 
dust  in  the  people’s  eyes  about  it,  and  make  a 
great  many,  who  know  nothing  at  all  of  the  evils 


-NIGHT  THE  SEVENTH. 


161 

of  drinking  themselves,  believe  some  bugbear 
story  about  trampling  on  the  rights  of  I don’t 
know  who,  nor  they  either.  As  for  rum-sellers’ 
rights,  I never  could  see  any  right  they  had  to 
get  rich  by  ruining  poor  devils  such  as  I am.  I 
think,  though,  that  we  have  some  right  to  be  pro- 
tected against  them.” 

The  ringing  of  a bell  here  announced  the  ar- 
rival of  some  traveler,  and  the  hostler  left  me. 

I learned,  during  the  morning,  that  Matthew, 
the  bar-keeper,  and  also  the  son  of  Mr.  Slade, 
were  both  considerably  hurt  during  the  affrays  in 
the  bar-room,  and  were  confined,  temporarily,  to 
their  beds.  Mrs.  Slade  still  continued  in  a dis- 
tressing and  dangerous  state.  Judge  Lyman, 
though  shockingly  injured,  was  not  thought  to 
be  in  a critical  condition. 

A busy  day  the  sheriff  had  of  it,  making  arrests 
of  various  parties  engaged  in  the  last  night’s  af- 
fairs. Even  Slade,  unable  as  he  was  to  lift  his 
head  from  his  pillow,  was  required  to  give  heavy 
bail  for  his  appearance  at  court.  Happily,  I es- 
caped the  inconvenience  of  being  held  to  appear 
as  a witness,  and  early  in  the  afternoon  had  the 
satisfaction  of  finding  myself  rapidly  borne  away 
in  the  stage-coach.  It  was  two  years  before  I 
entered  the  pleasant  village  of  Cedarville  again. 


162 


TEN  NIGHTS  IN  A BAR-ROOM. 


NIGHT  THE  EIGHTH. 

REAPING  THE  WHIRLWIND. 

I was  in  Washington  City  during  the  succeed- 
ing month.  It  was  the  short,  or  closing  session, 
of  a regular  Congressional  term.  The  implication 
of  Judge  Lyman  in  the  affair  of  Green  and  young 
Hammond  had  brought  him  into  such  bad  odor 
in  Cedarville,  and  the  whole  district  from  which 
he  had  been  chosen,  that  his  party  deemed  it  wise 
to  set  him  aside,  and  take  up  a candidate  less 
likely  to  meet  with  so  strong,  and,  it  might  be, 
successful  an  opposition.  By  so  doing,  they  were 
able  to  secure  the  election,  once  more,  against  the 
growing  temperance  party,  which  succeeded, 
however,  in  getting  a Maine  Law  man  into  the 
State  Legislature.  It  was,  therefore,  Judge  Ly- 
man's last  winter  at  the  Federal  Capital. 

While  seated  in  the  reading-room  at  Fuller’s 
Hotel,  about  noon,  on  the  day  after  my  arrival 
in  Washington,  I noticed  an  individual,  whose 
face  looked  familiar,  come  in  and  glance  about, 
as  if  in  search  of  some  one.  While  yet  question- 
ing in  my  mind  who  he  could  be,  I heard  a man 
remark  to  a person  with  whom  he  had  been  con- 
versing: 

“ There’s  that  vagabond  member  away  from 
his  place  in  the  House,  again.” 

“ Who?  ” inquired  the  other. 

“ Why,  Judge  Lyman,”  was  answered. 


NIGH T THE  EIGHTH. 


163 

“Oh!”  said  the  other,  indifferently;  “it  isn’t 
of  much  consequence.  Precious  little  wisdom  does 
he  add  to  that  intelligent  body.” 

“ Plis  vote  is  worth  something,  at  least,  when 
important  questions  are  at  stake.” 

“ What  does  he  charge  for  it?  ” was  coolly  in- 
quired. 

There  was  a shrug  of  the  shoulders,  and  an 
arching  of  the  eyebrows,  but  no  answer. 

“ I’m  in  earnest,  though,  in  the  question,”  said 
the  last  speaker. 

“ Not  in  saying  that  Lyman  will  sell  his  vote 
to  the  highest  bidders?” 

y “ That  will  depend  altogether  upon  who  the 
bidders  may  be.  They  must  be  men  who  have 
something  to  lose  as  well  as  gain — men  not  at  all 
likely  to  bruit  the  matter,  and  in  serving  whose 
personal  interests  no>  abandonment  of  party  is 
required.  Judge  Lyman  is  always  on  good  terms 
with  the  lobby  members,  and  may  be  found  in 
company  with  some  of  them  daily.  Doubtless,  his 
absence  from  the  House,  now,  is  for  the  purpose 
of  a special  meeting  with  gentlemen  who  are  ready 
to  pay  w«ll  for  votes  in  favor  of  some  bill  making 
appropriations  of  public  money  for  private  or  cor- 
porate benefit.” 

“ You  certainly  can  not  mean  all  you  say  to 
be  taken  in  its  broadest  sense,”  was  replied  to  this. 

“Yes;  in  its  very  broadest.  Into  just  this  depth 
of  moral  and  political  degradation  has  this  man 
fallen,  disgracing  his  constituents,  and  dishonor- 
ing his  country.” 

“ His  presence  at  Washington  doesn’t  speak 
very  highly  in  favor  of  the  community  he  repre- 
sents.” 

“ No;  still,  as  things  are  now,  we  cannot  judge 
of  the  moral  worth  of  a community  by  the  men 
sent  from  it  to  Congress.  Representatives  show 


164  TEN  NIGHTS  IN  A BAR-ROOM. 

merely  the  strength  of  parties.  The  candidate 
chosen  in  party  primary  meetings  is  not  selected 
because  he  is  the  best  man  they  have,  and  the  one 
fittest  to  legislate  wisely  in  national  affairs;  but 
he  who  happens  to  have  the  strongest  personal 
friends  among  those  who  nominate,  or  who  is 
most  likely  to  poll  the  highest  vote.  This  is  why 
we  find,  in  Congress,  such  a large  preponderance 
of  tenth-rate  men.” 

“ A man  such  as  you  represent  Judge  Lyman 
to  be  would  sell  his  country,  like  another  Arnold.” 

“ Yes;  if  the  bid  were  high  enough.” 

“ Does  he  gamble?  ” 

“ Gambling,  I might  say,  is  a part  of  his  profes- 
sion. Very  few  nights  pass,  I am  told,  without 
finding  him  at  the  gaming-table.” 

I heard  no  more.  At  all  this,  I was  not  in  the 
least  surprised;  for  my  knowledge  of  the  man's 
antecedents  had  prepared  me  for  allegations  quite 
as  bad  as  these. 

During  the  week  I spent  at  the  Federal  Capital 
I had  several  opportunities  of  seeing  Judge  Ly- 
man, in  the  House  and  out  of  it, — in  the  House 
only  when  the  yeas  and  nays  were  called  on  some 
important  measure,  or  a vote  taken  on  a bill 
granting  special  privileges.  In  the  latter  case,  his 
vote,  as  I noticed,  was  generally  cast  on  the  af- 
firmative side.  Several  times  I saw  him  stagger- 
ing on  the  Avenue,  and  once  brought  into  the 
House  for  the  purpose  of  voting,  in  so  drunken 
a state,  that  he  had  to  be  supported  to  his  seat. 
And  even  worse  than  this — when  his  name  was 
called,  he  was  asleep,  and  had  to  be  shaken  several 
times  before  he  was  sufficiently  aroused  to  give 
his  vote! 

Happily,  for  the  good  of  his  country,  it  was 
his  last  winter  in  Washington.  At  the  next  ses- 
sion, a better  man  took  his  place. 


NIGHT  THE  EIGHTH . 


165 

Two  years  from  the  period  of  my  last  visit  to 
Cedarville,  I found  myself  approaching  that  quiet 
village  again.  As  the  church-spire  came  in  view, 
and  house  after  house  became  visible,  here  and 
there,  standing  out  in  pleasant  relief  against  the 
green  background  of  woods  and  fields,  all  the 
exciting  events  which  rendered  my  last  visit  so 
memorable,  came  up  fresh  in  my  mind.  I was 
yet  thinking  of  Willy  Hammond’s  dreadful  death, 
and  of  his  broken-hearted  mother,  whose  life  went 
out  with  his,  when  the  stage  rolled  by  their  old 
homestead.  Oh,  what  a change  was  here!  Neg- 
lect, decay,  and  dilapidation  were  visible,  let  the 
eye  fall  where  it  would.  The  fences  were  down, 
here  and  there;  the  hedges,  once  so  green  and 
nicely  trimmed,  had  grown  rankly  in  some  places, 
but  were  stunted  and  dying  in  others;  all  the 
beautiful  walks  were  weedy  and  grass-grown, 
and  the  box-borders  dead;  the  garden,  rainbow- 
hued  in  its  wealth  of  choice  and  beautiful  flowers 
when  I first  saw  it,  was  lying  waste, — a rooting- 
ground  for  hogs.  A glance  at  the  house  showed 
a broken  chimney,  the  bricks  unremoved  from 
the  spot  where  they  struck  the  ground;  a moss- 
grown  roof,  with  a large  limb  from  a lightning- 
rent  tree  lying  almost  balanced  over  the  eaves, 
and  threatening  to  fall  at  the  touch  of  the  first 
wind-storm  that  swept  over.  Half  of  the  vines 
that  clambered  about  the  portico  were  dead,  and 
the  rest,  untrained,  twined  themselves  in  wild  dis- 
order, or  fell  groveling  to  the  earth.  One  of 
the  pillars  of  the  portico  was  broken,  as  were, 
also,  two  of  the  steps  that  went  up  to  it. 
The  windows  of  the  house  were  closed,  but  the 
door  stood  open,  and,  as  the  stage  went  past, 
my  eyes  rested,  for  a moment,  upon  an  old  man 
seated  in  the  hall.  He  was  not  near  enough  to 
the  door  for  me  to  get  a view  of  his  face;  but 


166  TEN  nights  in  a bar-room. 

the  white  flowing  hair  left  me  in  no  doubt  as  to 
his  identity.  It  was  Judge  Hammond. 

The  “ Sickle  and  Sheaf  ” was  yet  the  stage- 
house  of  Cedarville,  and  there,  a few  minutes 
afterward,  I found  myself.  The  hand  of  change 
had  been  here  also.  The  first  object  that  attract- 
ed my  attention  was  the  sign-post,  which,  at  my 
earlier  arrival,  some  eight  or  nine  years  before, 
stood  up  in  its  new  white  garment  of  paint,  as 
straight  as  a plummet-lin;e,  bearing  proudly 
aloft  the  golden  sheaf  and  gleaming  sickle.  Now, 
the  post,  dingy  and  shattered,  and  worn  from  the 
frequent  contact  of  wheels,  and  gnawing  of  rest- 
less horses,  leaned  from  its  trim  perpendicular  at 
an  angle  of  many  degrees,  as  if  ashamed  of  the 
faded,  weather-worn,  lying  symbol  it  bore  aloft 
in  the  sunshine.  Around  the  post  was  a filthy 
mud-pool,  in  which  a hog  lay  grunting  out  its 
sense  of  enjoyment.  Two  or  three  old  empty 
whisky  barrels  lumbered  up  the  dirty  porch,  on 
which  a coarse,  bloated,  vulgar-looking  man  sat 
leaning  against  the  wall — his  chair  tipped  back 
on  its  hind  legs — squinting  at  me  from  one  eye, 
as  I left  the  stage  and  came  forward  toward  the 
house. 

“Ah!  is  this  you?”  said  he,  as  I came  near 
to  him,  speaking  thickly,  and  getting  up  with  a 
heavy  motion.  I now  recognized  the  altered  per- 
son of  Simon  Slade.  On  looking  at  him  closer, 
1 saw  that  the  eye  which  I had  thought  only  shut 
was  in  fact  destroyed.  How  vividly,  now,  up- 
rose in  imagination  the  scenes  I had  witnessed 
during  my  last  night  in  his  bar-room;  the  night 
when  a brutal  mob,  whom  he  had  inebriated  with 
liquor,  came  near  murdering  him. 

“ Glad  to  see  you  once  more,  my  boy!  Glad 
to  see  you!  I — I — Fm  not  just — you  see.  How 
are  you?  How  are  you?” 


NIGHT  THE  EIGHTH.  167 

And  he  shook  my  hand  with  a drunken  show 
of  cordiality. 

I felt  shocked  and  disgusted.  Wretched  man! 
down  the  crumbling  sides  of  the  pit  he  had  digged 
for  other  feet,  he  was  himself  sliding,  while  not 
enough  strength  remained  even  to  struggle  with 
his  fate. 

I tried  for  a few  minutes  to  talk  with  him;  but 
his  mind  was  altogether  beclouded,  and  his  ques- 
tions and  answers  incoherent;  so  I left  him,  and 
entered  the  bar-room. 

“ Can  I get  accommodations  here  for  a couple 
of  days?”  I inquired  of  a stupid,  sleepy-looking 
man,  who  was  sitting  in  a chair  behind  the  bar. 

“ I reckon  so,”  he  answered,  but  did  not  rise. 

I turned,  and  walked  a few  paces  toward  the 
door,  and  then  walked  back  again. 

“ Fd  like  to  get  a room,”  said  I. 

The  man  got  up  slowly,  and  going  to  a desk, 
fumbled  about  in  it  for  a while.  At  length  he 
brought  out  an  old,  dilapidated  blank-book,  and 
throwing  it  open  on  the  counter,  asked  me,  with 
an  indifferent  manner,  to  write  down  my  name. 

“ I’ll  take  a pen,  if  you  please.” 

“ Oh,  yes!  ” And  he  hunted  about  again  in  the 
desk,  from  which,  after  a while,  he  brought  forth 
the  blackened  stump  of  a quill,  and  pushed  it 
toward  me  across  the  counter. 

“ Ink,”  said  I — fixing  my  eyes  upon  him  with 
a look  of  displeasure. 

“ I don’t  believe  there  is  any,”  he  muttered. 
“ Frank,”  and  he  called  the  landlord’s  son,  going 
to  the  door  behind  the  bar  as  he  did  so. 

“ What  d’ye  want?”  a rough,  ill-natured  voice 
answered. 

“ Where’s  the  ink?  ” 

a Don’t  know  any  thing  about  it.” 


168 


TEN  NIGHTS  IN  A BAR-ROOM. 


“ You  had  it  last.  What  did  you  do  with  it?  ” 

“ Nothing!  ” was  growled  back. 

“ Well,  I wish  you’d  find  it  ” 

“ Find  it  yourself,  and ” I cannot  repeat 

the  profane  language  he  used. 

“ Never  mind,,,  said  I.  “ A pencil  will  do  just 
as  well.”  And  I drew  one  from  my  pocket.  The 
attempt  to  write  with  this,  on  the  begrimed  and 
greasy  page  of  the  register,  was  only  partially 
successful.  It  would  have  puzzled  almost  any 
one  to  make  out  the  name.  From  the  date  of 
the  last  entry,  it  appeared  that  mine  was  thfe  first 
arrival,  for  over  a week,  of  any  person  desiring 
a room. 

As  I finished  writing  my  name,  Frank  came 
stalking  in,  with  a cigar  in  his  mouth,  and  a cloud 
of  smoke  around  his  head.  He  had  grown  into 
a stout  man — though  his  face  presented  little  that 
was  manly,  in  the  true  sense  of  the  word.  It  was 
disgustingly  sensual.  On  seeing  me,  a slight 
flush  tinged  liis  cheeks. 

“ How  do  you  do?  ” he  said,  offering  me  his 
hand.  “ Peter/  — lr?  turned  to  the  lazy-looking 
bar-keeper — “tell  J«me  to  have  No.  n put  in 
order  for  a gentleman  immediately,  and  tell  her 
to  be  sure  and  change  the  bed-linen.” 

“ Things  look  rather  dull  here,”  I remarked, 
as  the  bar-keeper  went  <>ut  to  do  as  he  had  been 
directed. 

“ Rather;  it’s  a dull  pla*  r anyhow.” 

“ How  is  your  mother?  ’’  l inquired. 

A slight,  troubled  look  came  into  his  face,  as 
he  answered: 

“ No  better.” 

“ She’s  sick,  then?  ” 

“Yes;  she’s  been  sick  a good  V/knC;  and  I’m 
afraid  will  never  be  much  better.”  Hi*  manner 


NIGHT  THE  EIGHTH.  169 

was  not  altogether  cold  and  indifferent,  but  there 
was  a want  of  feeling  in  his  voice. 

“ Is  she  at  home?  ” 

“No,  sir.” 

As  he  showed  no  inclination  to  say  more  on 
the  subject,  I asked  no  further  questions,  and  he 
soon  found  occasion  to  leave  me. 

The  bar-room  had  undergone  no  material 
change,  so  far  as  its  furniture  and  arrangements 
were  concerned;  but  a very  great  change  was 
apparent  in  the  condition  of  these.  The  brass 
rod  around  the  bar,  which,  at  my  last  visit,  was 
brightly  polished,  was  now  a greenish-black,  and 
there  came  from  it' an  unpleasant  odor  of  verdi- 
gris. The  walls  were  fairly  coated  with  dust, 
smoke,  and  fly-specks,  and  the  windows  let  in 
the  light  but  feebly  through  the  dirt-obscured 
glass.  The  floor  was  filthy.  Behind  the  bar,  on 
the  shelves  designed  for  a display  of  liquors,  was 
a confused  mingling  of  empty  or  half-filled  de- 
canters, cigar-boxes,  lemons  and  lemon-peel,  old 
newspapers,  glasses,  a broken  pitcher,  a hat,  a 
soiled  vest,  and  a pair  of  blacking-brushes,  with 
other  incongruous  things,  not  now  remembered. 
The  air  of  the  room?  was  loaded  with  offensive 
vapors. 

Disgusted  with  every  thing  about  the  bar,  I 
went  into  the  sitting-room.  Here,  there  was 
some  order  in  the  arrangement  of  the  dingy  fur- 
niture; but  you  might  have  written  your  name 
in  dust  on  the  looking-glass  and  table.  The  smell 
of  the  torpid  atmosphere  was  even  worse  than 
that  of  the  bar-room.  So  I did  not  linger  here, 
but  passed  through  the  hall,  and  out  upon  the 
porch,  to  get  a draught  of  pure  air. 

Slade  still  sat  leaning  against  the  wall. 

“ Fine  day  this,”  said  he,  speaking  in  a mum- 
bling kind  of  voice. 


170  TEN  NIGHT  ft  IN  A EAR-ROOM. 

“ Very  fine,”  I answered. 

“ Yes,  very  fine.” 

“ Not  doing  so  well  as  you  were  a few  years 
ago,”  said  I. 

“ No — you  see — these — these  ’ere  blamed  tem- 
perance people  are  ruining  every  thing.” 

“Ah!  Is  that  so?” 

“ Yes.  Cedarville  isn’t  what  it  was  when  you 
first  came  to  the  ‘ Sickle  and  Sheaf.’  I — I — you 
see.  Curse  the  temperance  people!  They’ve 
ruined  every  thing,  you  see.  Every  thing! 
Ruined ” 

And  he  muttered,  and  mouthed  his  words  in 
such  a way,  that  I could  understand  but  little  he 
said;  and,  in  that  little,  there  was  scarcely  any 
coherency.  So  I left  him,  with  a feeling  of  pity 
in  my  heart  for  the  wreck  he  had  become,  and 
went  into  the  town  to  call  upon  one  or  two  gen- 
tlemen with  whom  I had  business. 

In  the  course  of  the  afternoon,  I learned  that 
Mrs.  Slade  was  in  an  insane  asylum,  about  five 
miles  from  Cedarville.  The  terrible  events  of 
the  day  on  which  young  Hammond  was  mur- 
dered completed  the  work  of  mental  ruin,  begun 
at  the  time  her  husband  abandoned  the  quiet, 
honorable  calling  of  a miller,  and  became  a tav- 
ern-keeper. Reason  could  hold  its  position  no 
longer.  When  word  came  to  her  that  Willy  and 
his  mother  were  both  dead,  she  uttered  at  wild 
shriek,  and  fell  down  in  a fainting  fit.  From 
that  period  the  balance  of  her  mind  was  de- 
stroyed. Long  before  this,  her  friends  saw  that 
reason  wavered.  Frank  had  been  her  idol.  A 
pure,  bright,  affectionate  boy  he  was,  when  she 
removed  with  him  from  their  pleasant  cottage- 
home,  where  all  the  surrounding  influences  were 
good,  into  a tavern,  where  an  angel  could  scarce- 
ly remain  without  corruption.  From  the  mo- 


NIGHT  THE  EIGHTH. 


171 

ment  this  change  was  decided  on  by  her  hus- 
band, a shadow  fell  upon  her  heart.  She  saw,  be- 
fore her  husband,  her  children,  and  herself,  a 
yawning  pit,  and  felt  that,  in  a very  few  years, 
all  of  them  must  plunge  down  into  its  fearful 
darkness. 

Alas!  how  quickly  began  the  realization  of  her 
worst  fears  in  the  corruption  of  her  worshiped 
boy!  And  how  vain  proved  all  effort  and  re- 
monstrance, looking  to  his  safety,  whether  made 
with  himself  or  his  father!  From  the  day  the 
tavern  was  opened,  and  Frank  drew  into  his  lungs 
full  draughts  of  the  changed  atmosphere  by  which 
he  was  now  surrounded,  the  work  of  moral  de- 
terioration commenced.  The  very  smell  of  rhe 
liquor  exhilarated  him  unnaturally;  while  the 
subjects  of  conversation,  so  new  to  him,  that 
found  discussion  in  the  bar-room,  soon  came  to 
occupy  a prominent  place  in  his  imagination,  to 
the  exclusion  of  those  humane,  child-like,  tender, 
and  heavenly  thoughts  and  impressions  it  had 
been  the  mother’s  care  to  impart  and  awaken. 

Ah!  with  what  an  eager  zest  does  the  heart 
drink  in  of  evil.  And  how  almost  hopeless  is 
the  case  of  a boy,  surrounded,  as  Frank  was,  by 
the  corrupting,  debasing  associations  of  a bar- 
room! Had  his  father  meditated  his  ruin,  he  could 
not  have  more  surely  laid  his  plans  for  the  fear- 
ful consummation;  and  he  reaped  as  he  had  sown. 
With  a selfish  desire  to  get  gain,  he  embarked 
in  the  trade  of  corruption,  ruin,  and  death,  weakly 
believing  that  he  and  his  could  pass  through  the 
fire  harmless.  How  sadly  a few  years  demon- 
strated his  error,  we  have  seen. 

Flora,  I learned,  was  with  her  mother,  devot- 
ing her  life  to  her.  The  dreadful  death  of  Willy 
Hammond,  for  whom  she  had  conceived  a strong 
attachment,  came  near  depriving  her  of  reason 


172  ten  nights  in  a bar-room. 

also.  Since  the  day  on  which  that  awful  tragedy 
occurred,  she  had  never  even  looked  upon  her  old 
home.  She  went  away  with  her  unconscious 
mother,  and  ever  since  had  remained  with  her — 
devoting  her  life  to  her  comfort.  Long  before 
this,  all  her  own  and  mother’s  influence  over  her 
brother  had  come  to  an  end.  It  mattered  not 
how  she  sought  to  stay  his  feet,  so  swiftly  moving 
along  the  downward  way,  whether  by  gentle  en- 
treaty, earnest  remonstrance,  or  tears;  in  either 
case,  wounds  for  her  own  heart  were  the  sure 
consequences,  while  his  steps  never  lingered  a 
moment.  A swift  destiny  seemed  hurrying  him 
on  to  ruin.  The  change  in  her  father — once  so 
tender,  so  cheerful  in  his  tone,  so  proud  of  and 
loving  toward  his  daughter — was  another  source 
of  deep  grief  to  her  pure  young  spirit.  Over  him, 
as  well  as  over  her  brother,  all  her  power  was 
lost;  and  he  even  avoided  her,  as  though  her 
presence  were  an  offense  to  him.  And  so,  when 
she  went  out  from  her  unhappy  home,  she  took 
with  her  no  desire  to  return.  Even  when  imag- 
ination bore  her  back  to  the  “ Sickle  and  Sheaf,” 
she  felt  an  intense,  heart-sickening  repulsion  to- 
ward the  place  where  she  had  first  felt  the  pois- 
oned arrows  of  life ; and  in  the  depths  of  her  spirit 
she  prayed  that  her  eyes  might  never  look  upon 
it  again.  In  her  almost  cloister-like  seclusion, 
she  sought  to  gather  the  mantle  of  oblivon  about 
her  heart. 

Had  not  her  mother’s  condition  made  Flora’s 
duty  a plain  one,  the  true,  unselfish  instincts  of 
her  heart  would  have  doubtless  led  her  back  to 
the  polluted  home  she  had  left,  there,  in  a kind 
of  living  death,  to  minister  as  best  she  could  to 
the  comfort  of  a debased  father  and  brother.  But 
she  was  spared  that  trial — that  fruitless  sacrifice. 

Evening  found  me  once  more  in  the  bar-room 


NIGHT  THE  EIGHTH.  173 

of  the  “ Sickle  and  Sheaf.”  The  sleepy,  indiffer- 
ent bar-keeper  was  now  more  in  his  element — 
looked  brighter,  and  had  quicker  motions.  Slade, 
who  had  partially  recovered  from  the  stupefying 
effects  of  the  heavy  draughts  of  ale  with  which 
he  washed  down  his  dinner,  was  also  in  a better 
condition,  though  not  inclined  to  talk.  He  was 
sitting  at  a table,  alone,  with  his  eyes  wandering 
about  the  room.  Whether  his  thoughts  were 
agreeable  or  disagreeable,  it  was  not  easy  to  de- 
termine. Frank  was  there,  the  centre  of  a noisy 
group  of  coarse  fellows,  whose  vulgar  sayings 
and  profane  expletives  continually  rung  through 
the  room.  The  noisiest,  coarsest,  and  most  pro- 
fane was  Frank  Slade;  yet  did  not  the  incessant 
volume  of  bad  language  that  flowed  from  his 
tongue  appear  in  the  least  to  disturb  his  father. 

Outraged,  at  length,  by  this  disgusting  exhi- 
bition, that  had  not  even  the  excuse  of  an  ex- 
citing cause,  I was  leaving  the  bar-room,  when 
I heard  some  one  remark  to  a young  man  who 
had  just  come  in: 

“What!  you  here  again,  Ned?  Ain't  you 
afraid  your  old  man  will  be  after  you,  as  usual?” 
“ No,”  answered  the  person  addressed,  chuck- 
ling inwardly,  “ he's  gone  to  a prayer-meeting.” 
“ You'll  at  least  have  the  benefit  of  his  pray- 
ers,” was  lightly  remarked. 

I turned  to  observe  the  young  man  more 
closely.  His  face  I remembered,  though  I could 
not  identify  him  at  first.  But,  when  I heard  him 
addressed  soon  after  as  Ned  Hargrove,  I had  a 
vivid  recollection  of  a little  incident  that  occurred 
some  years  before,  and  which  then  made  a strong 
impression.  The  reader  has  hardly  forgotten  the 
visit  of  Mr.  Hargrove  to  the  bar-room  of  the 
“ Sickle  and  Sheaf,”  and  the  conversation  among 
some  of  its  inmates,  which  his  withdrawal,  in 


174  TEN  nights  in  a bar-room . 

company  with  his  son,  then  occasioned.  The 
father’s  watchfulness  over  his  boy,  and  his  efforts 
to  save  him  from  the  allurements  and  tempta- 
tions of  a bar-room,  had  proved,  as  now  ap- 
peared, unavailing.  The  son  was  several  years 
older;  but  it  was  sadly  evident,  from  the  express 
sion  of  his  face,  that  he  had  been  growing  older 
in  evil  faster  than  in  years. 

The  few  words  that  I have  mentioned  as  pass- 
ing between  this  young  man  and  another  inmate 
of  the  bar-room,  caused  me  to  turn  back  from 
the  door,  through  which  I was  about  passing, 
and  take  a chair  near  to  where  Hargrove  had 
seated  himself.  As  I did  so,  the  eyes  of  Simon 
Slade  rested  on  the  last-named  individual. 

“ Ned  Hargrove !”  he  said,  speaking  roughly 
— “ if  you  want  a drink,  you’d  better  get  it,  and 
make  yourself  scarce.” 

“ Don’t  trouble  yourself,”  retorted  the  young 
man,  “ you’ll  get  your  money  for  the  drink  in 
good  time.” 

This  irritated  the  landlord,  who  swore  at  Har- 
grove violently,  and  said  something  about  not 
wanting  boys  about  his  place  who  couldn’t  stir 
from  home  without  having  “ daddy  or  mammy 
running  after  them.” 

“ Never  fear!”  cried  out  the  person  who  had 
first  addressed  Hargrove — “ his  old  man’s  gone 
to  a prayer-meeting.  We  shan’t  have  the  light 
of  his  pious  countenance  here  to-night.” 

I fixed  my  eyes  upon  the  young  man  to  see 
what  effect  this  coarse  and  irreverent  allusion  to 
his  father  would  have.  A slight  tinge  of  shame 
was  in  his  face;  but  I saw  that  he  had  not  suffi- 
cient moral  courage  to  resent  the  shameful  dese- 
cration of  a parent’s  name.  How  should  he,  when 
he  was  himself  the  first  to  desecrate  that  name? 

“ If  he  were  forty  fathoms  deep  in  the  infer- 


NIGHT  THE  EIGHTH. 


175 

nal  regions/'  answered  Slade,  “ he'd  find  out  that 
Ned  was  here,  and  get  half  an  hour's  leave  of 
absence  to  come  after  him.  The  fact  is,  I'm  tired 
of  seeing  his  solemn,  sanctimonious  face  here 
every  night.  If  the  boy  hasn't  spirit  enough  to 
tell  him  to  mind  his  own  business,  as  I have  done 
more  than  fifty  times,  why,  let  the  boy  stay  away 
himself." 

“ Why  don't  you  send  him  off  with  a flea  in 
his  ear,  Ned?  " said  one  of  the  company,  a young 
man  scarcely  his  own  age.  “ My  old  man  tried 
that  game  with  me,  but  he  soon  found  that  I 
could  hold  the  winning  cards." 

“ Just  what  I'm  going  to  do  the  very  next  time 
he  conies  after  me." 

“ Oh,  yes!  So  you've  said  twenty  times,"  re- 
marked Frank  Slade,  in  a sneering,  insolent  man- 
ner. 

Edward  Hargrove  had  not  the  spirit  to  resent 
this;  he  only  answered: 

“Just  let  him  show  himself  here  to-night,  and 
you  will  see." 

“ No,  we  won't  see,"  sneered  Frank. 

“Wouldn't  it  be  fun!"  was  exclaimed.  “I 
hope  to  be  on  hand,  should  it  ever  come  off." 

“ He's  as  'fraid  as  death  of  the  old  chap," 
laughed  a sottish-looking  man,  whose  age  ought 
to  have  inspired  him  with  some  respect  for  the 
relation  between  father  and  son,  and  doubtless 
would,  "had  not  a long  course  of  drinking  and  fa- 
miliarity with  debasing  associates  blunted  his 
moral  sense. 

“ Now  for  it!  " I heard  uttered,  in  a quick,  de- 
lighted voice.  “ Now  for  fun!  Spunk  up  to  him, 
Ned!  Never  say  die!  " 

I turned  toward  the  door,  and  there  stood  the 
father  of  Edward  Hargrove.  How  well  I re- 
membered the  broad,  fine  forehead,  the  steady, 


176  TEN  nights  in  a bar-room. 

yet  mild  eyes,  the  firm  lips,  the  elevated,  supe- 
rior bearing  of  the  man  I had  once  before  seen 
in  that  place,  and  on  a like  errand.  His  form 
was  slightly  bent  now;  his  hair  was  whiter;  his 
eyes  farther  back  in  his  head;  his  face  thinner 
and  marked  with  deeper  lines;  and  there  was  in 
the  whole  expression  of  his  face  a touching  sad- 
ness. Yet,  superior  to  the  marks  of  time  and  suf- 
fering, an  unflinching  resolution  was  visible  in 
his  countenance,  that  gave  to  it  a dignity,  and 
extorted  involuntary  respect.  He  stood  still, 
after  advancing  a few  paces,  and  then,  his  search- 
ing eyes  having  discovered  his  son,  he  said  mild- 
ly, yet  firmly,  and  with  such  a strength  of  pa- 
rental love  in  his  voice  that  resistance  was  scarce- 
ly possible: 

'‘Edward!  Edward!  Come,  my  son.,, 

“ Don't  go.”  The  words  were  spoken  in  an 
under-tone,  and  he  who  uttered  them  turned  his 
face  away  from  Mr.  Hargrove,  so  that  the  old 
man  could  not  see  the  motion  of  his  lips.  A little 
while  before,  he  had  spoken  bravely  against  the 
father  of  Edward;  now,  he  could  not  stand  up 
in  his  presence. 

I looked  at  Edward.  He  did  not  move  from 
where  he  was  sitting,  and  yet  I saw  that  to  resist 
his  father  cost  him  no  light  struggle. 

“ Edward.”  There  was  nothing  imperative — 
nothing  stern — nothing  commanding  in,.  the  fa- 
ther's voice;,  but  its  great,  its  almost  irresistible 
power  lay  in  its  expression  of  the  father's  be- 
lief that  his  son  would  instantly  leave  the  place. 
And  it  was  this  power  that  prevailed.  Edward 
arose,  and,  with  eyes  cast  upon  the  floor,  was 
moving  away  from  his  companions,  when  Frank 
Slade  exclaimed: 

“ Poor,  weak  fool!  ” 

It  was  a lightning  flash  of  indignation,  rather 


NIGHT  THE  EIGHTH . 


177 

than  a mere  glance  from  the  human  eye,  that 
Mr.  Hargrove  threw  instantly  upon  Frank;  while 
his  fine  form  sprung  up  erect.  He  did  not  speak, 
but  merely  transfixed  him  with  a look.  Frank 
curled  his  lip  impotently,  as  he  tried  to  return 
the  old  man’s  withering  glances. 

“ Now  look  here!  ” said  Simon  Slade,  in  some 
wrath,  “ there’s  been  just  about  enough  of  this. 
I’m  tired  of  it.  Why  don’t  you  keep  Ned  at 
home?  Nobody  wants  him  here.” 

“ Refuse  to  sell  him  liquor,”  returned  Mr.  Har- 
grove. 

“ It’s  my  trade  to  sell  liquor,”  answered  Slade, 
boldly. 

“ I wish  you  had  a more  honorable  calling,” 
said  Hargrove,  almost  mournfully. 

“ If  you  insult  my  father,  I’ll  strike  you  down!  ” 
exclaimed  Frank  Slade,  starting  up  and  assum- 
ing a threatening  aspect. 

“ I respect  filial  devotion,  meet  it  where  I will,” 
calmly  replied  Mr.  Hargrove, — “ I only  wish  it 
had  a better  foundation  in  this  case.  I only  wish 

the  father  had  merited ” 

I will  not  stain  my  page  with  the  fearful  oath 
that  Frank  Slade  yelled,  rather  than  uttered,  as, 
with  clenched  fist,  he  sprang  toward  Mr.  Har- 
grove. But  ere  he  had  reached  the  unruffled  old 
man — who  stood  looking  at  him  as  one  would 
look  into  the  eyes  of  a wild  beast,  confident  that 
he  could  not  stand  the  gaze — a firm  hand  grasped 
his  arm,  and  a rough  voice  said: 

“ Avast,  there,  young  man!  Touch  a hair  of 
that  white  head,  and  I’ll  wring  your  neck  off.” 
“Lyon!”  As  Frank  uttered  the  man’s  name, 
he  raised  his  fist  to  strike  him.  A moment  the 
clenched  hand  remained  poised  in  the  air;  then  it 
fell  slowly  to  his  side,  and  he  contented  himself 
with  an  oath  and  a vile  epithet. 


TEX  XI OUT 8 IX  A BAR-ROOM. 


178 

“ You  can  swear  to  your  heart’s  content.  It 
will  do  nobody  any  harm  but  yourself/’  coolly  re- 
plied Mr.  Lyon,  wrhom  I now  recognized  as  the 
person  with  whom  I had  held  several  conversa- 
tions during  previous  visits. 

“ Thank  you,  Mr.  Lyon,”  said  Mr.  Hargrove, 
” for  this  manly  interference.  It  is  no  more  than 
I should  have  expected  from  you.” 

“ I never  suffer  a young  man  to  strike  an  old 
man,”  said  Lyon,  firmly.  “ Apart  from  that,  Mr. 
Hargrove,  there  are  other  reasons  why  your  per- 
son must  be  free  from  violence  where  I am.” 

“ This  is  a bad  place  for  you,  Lyon,”  said  Mr. 
Hargrove;  ” and  I’ve  said  so  to  you  a good  many 
times.”  He  spoke  in  rather  an  undertone.  “ Why 
iv ill  you  come  here?” 

“ It’s  a bad  place,  I know,”  replied  Lyon, 
speaking  out  boldly,  “ and  we  all  know  it.  But 
habit,  Mr.  Hargrove — habit.  That’s  the  cursed 
thing!  If  the  bar-rooms  were  all  shut  up,  there 
would  be  another  story  to  tell.  Get  us  the  Maine 
law,  and  there  will  be  some  chance  for  us.” 

“ Why  don’t  you  vote  the  temperance  ticket?” 
asked  Mr.  Hargrove. 

“ Why  did  I?  you’d  better  ask,”  said  Lyon. 

“ I thought  you  voted  against  us.” 

“ Not  I.  Ain’t  quite  so  blind  to  my  own  inter- 
ests as  that.  And,  if  the  truth  were  known,  I 
should  not  at  all  wonder  if  every  man  in  this 
room,  except  Slade  and  his  son,  voted  on  your 
side  of  the  house.” 

“ It’s  a little  strange,  then,”  said  Mr.  Har- 
grove, “ that  wdth  the  drinking  men  on  our  side, 
we  failed  to  secure  the  election.” 

“ You  must  blame  that  on  your  moderate  men, 
who  see  no  danger  and  go  blind  with  their  party,” 
answered  Lyon.  “ We  have  looked  the  evil  in  the 
face,  and  know  its  direful  quality.” 

: ; ~~  ; '■  \\ 


: NIGHT  THE  EIGHTH.  179 

“Come!  I *4011  Id  like  to  talk  with  you,  Mr. 
Lyon.” 

Mr.  Hargrove,  his  son,  and  Mr.  Lyon  went  out 
together.  As  they  left  the  room,  Frank  Slade 
said  : 

“ What  a cursed  liar  and  hypocrite  he  is!  ” 

“ Who?  ” was  asked. 

“ Why,  Lyon,”  answered  Frank,  boldly.  * 

“ You'd  better  say  that  to  his  face.” 

“ It  wouldn't  be  good  for  him,”  remarked  one 
of  the  company. 

At  this  Frank  started  to  his  feet,  stalked  about 
the  room,  and  put  on  all  the  disgusting  airs  of 
a drunken  braggart.  Even  his  father  saw  the 
ridiculous  figure  he  cut,  and  growled  out: 

“ There,  Frank,  that'll  do.  Don't  make  a mis- 
erable fool  of  yourself!  ” 

At  which  Frank  retorted,  with  so  much  of  in- 
solence that  his  father  flew  into  a towering  pas- 
sion, and'ordered  him  to  leave  the  bar-room. 

“ You  can  go  out  yourself  if  you  don't  like  the 
company.  I'm  very  well  satisfied,”  answered 
Frank. 

“ Leave  this  room,  you  impudent  young  scoun- 
drel!” 

“ Can't  go,  my  amiable  friend,”  said  Frank, 
with  a cool  self-possession  that  maddened  his 
father,  who  got  up  hastily,  and  moved  across  the 
bar-room  to  the  place  where  he  was  standing. 

"Go  out,  I tell  you!”  Slade  spoke  resolutely. 

“ Would  be  happy  to  oblige  you,”  Frank  said, 
in  a taunting  voice;  “ but,  'pon  my  word,  it  isn't 
at  all  convenient.” 

Half  intoxicated  as  he  was,  and  already  nearly 
blind  with  passion,  Slade  lifted  his  hand  to  strike 
his  son.  And  the  blow  would  have  fallen  had 
not  some  one  caught  his  arm,  and  held  him  back 
from  the  meditated  violence.  Even  the  debased 


180  TEN  nights  in  a bar-room . 

visitors  of  this  bar-room  could  not  stand  by  and 
see  nature  outraged  in  a bloody  strife  between 
father  and  son;  for  it  was  plain  from  the  face  and 
quickly  assumed  attitude  of  Frank,  that  if  his 
father  had  laid  his  hand  upon  him,  he  would  have 
struck  him  in  return. 

I could  not  remain  to  hear  the  awful  impreca- 
tions that  father  and  son,  in  their  impotent  rage, 
called  down  from  heaven  upon  each  other’s  heads. 
It  was  the  most  shocking  exhibiton  of  depraved 
human  nature  that  I had  ever  seen.  And  so  I 
left  the  bar-room,  glad  to  escape  from  its  stifling 
atmosphere  and  revolting  scenes. 


NIGHT  THE  NINTH. 


181 


NIGHT  THE  NINTH. 

A FEARFUL  CONSUMMATION. 

Neither  Slade  nor  his  son  was  present  at  the 
breakfast-table  on  the  next  morning.  As  for 
myself,  I did  not  eat  with  much  appetite.  Wheth- 
er this  defect  arose  from  the  state  of  my  mind,  or 
the  state  of  the  food  set  before  me,  I did  not  stop 
to  inquire;  but  left  the  stifling,  offensive  atmos- 
phere of  the  dining-room  in  a very  few  moments 
after  entering  that  usually  attractive  place  for  a 
hungry  man. 

A few  early  drinkers  were  already  in  the  bar- 
room— men  with  shattered  nerves  and  cadaver- 
ous faces,  who  could  not  begin  the  day's  .work 
without  the  stimulus  of  brandy  or  whisky.  They 
came  in,  with  gliding  footsteps,  asked  for  what 
they  wanted  in  low  voices,  drank  in  silence,  and 
departed.  It  was  a melancholy  sight  to  look 
upon. 

About  nine  o'clock  the  landlord  made  his  ap- 
pearance. He,  too,  came  gliding  into  the  bar- 
room, and  his  first  act  was  to  seize  upon  a brandy 
decanter,  pour  out  nearly  half  a pint  of  the  fiery 
liquid,  and  drink  it  off.  How  badly  his  hand  shook 
— so  badly  that  he  spilled  the  brandy  both  in 
pouring  it  out  and  in  lifting  the  glass  to  his  lips! 
What  a shattered  wreck  he  was!  He  looked 
really  worse  now  than  he  did  on  the  day  before, 
when  drink  gave  an  artificial  vitality  to  his  sys- 
tem, a tension  to  his  muscles,  and  light  to  his 
countenance.  The  miller  of  ten  years  ago,  and 
the  tavern-keeper  of  to-day!  Who  could  have 
identified  them  as  one? 


182  TEN  nights  in  a bar-room . 

Slade  was  turning  from  the  bar,  when  a man 
came  in.  I noticed  an  instant  change  in  the  land- 
lord’s countenance.  He  looked  startled;  almost 
frightened.  The  man  drew  a small  package  from 
his  pocket,  and  after  selecting  a paper  there- 
from, presented  it  to  Slade,  who  received  it  with 
a nervous  reluctance,  opened,  and-  let  his  eye  fall 
upon  the  writing  within.  I was  observing  him 
closely  at  the  time,  and  saw  his  countenance  flush 
deeply.  In  a moment  or  two  it  became  pale  again 
— paler  even  than  before. 

“ Very  well — all  right.  Til  attend  to  it,”  said 
the  landlord,  trying  to  recover  himself,  yet  swal- 
lowing with  every  sentence. 

The  man,  who  was  no  other  than  a sheriff’s 
deputy,  and  who  gave  him  a sober,  professional 
look,  then  went  out  with  a firm  step,  and  an  air 
of  importance.  As  he  passed  through  the  outer 
door,  Slade  retired  from  the  bar-room. 

“ Trouble  coming,”  I heard  the  bar-keeper  re- 
mark, speaking  partly  to  himself  and  partly  with 
the  view,  as  was  evident  from  his  manner,  of  lead- 
ing me  to  question  him.  But  this  I did  not  feel 
that  it  was  right  to  do. 

“ Got  the  sheriff  on  him  at  last,”  added  the 
bar-keeper. 

“ What’s  the  matter,  Bill?”  inquired  a man 
who  now  came  in  with  a bustling,  important  air, 
and  leaned  familiarly  over  the  bar.  “ Who  was 
Jenkins  after?” 

“ The  old  man,”  replied  the  bar-keeper,  in  a 
voice  that  showed  pleasure  rather  than  regret. 

“ No!” 

“ It’s  a fact.”  Bill,  the  bar-keeper,  actually 
smiled. 

“ What’s  to  pay?  ” said  the  man. 

“ Don’t  know,  and  don’t  care  much.” 

“ Did  he  serve  a summons  or  an  execution?” 


NIGHT  THE  NINTH. 


183 


“ Can't  tell." 

“Judge  Lyman's  suit  went  against  him." 

“ Did  it?" 

“ Yes;  and  I heard  Judge  Lyman  swear,  that 
if  he  got  him  on  the  hip,  he'd  sell  him  out,  bag 
and  basket.  And  he's  the  man  to  keep  his  word." 

“ I never  could  just  make  out,"  said  the  bar- 
keeper, “ how  he  ever  came  to  owe  Judge  Ly- 
man so  much*.  I've  never  known  of  any  business 
transactions  between  them." 

“ It's  been  dog  eat  dog,  I rather  guess,"  said 
the  man. 

“ What  do  you  mean  by  that?"  inquired  the 
bar-keeper. 

“ You've  heard  of  dogs  hunting  in  pairs?  " 

“ Oh,  yes." 

“ Well,  since  Harvey  Green  got  his  deserts,  the 
business  of  fleecing  our  silly  young  fellows,  who 
happened  to'  have  more  money  than  wit  or  dis- 
cretion, has  been  in  the  hands  of  Judge  Lyman 
and  Slade.  They  hunted  together,  Slade  holding 
the  game,  while  the  Judge  acted  as  blood-sucker. 
But  that  business  was  interrupted  about  a year 
ago  ; and  game  got  so  scarce  that,  as  I suggested, 
dog  began  to  eat  dog.  And  here  comes  the  end 
of  the  matter,  if  I'm  not  mistaken.  So  mix  us  a 
stiff  toddy.  I want  one  more  good  -drink  at  the 
"Sickle  and  Sheaf,'  before  the  colors  are  struck." 

And  the  man  chuckled  at  his  witty  effort. 

During  the  day,  I learned  that  affairs  stood 
pretty  much  as  this  man  had  conjectured.  Ly- 
man's suits  had  been  on  sundry  notes  payable  on 
demand;  but  nobody  knew  of  any  property  trans- 
actions between  him  and  Slade.  On  the  part  of 
Slade,  no  defense  had  been  made — the  suit  going 
by  default.  The  visit  of  the  sheriff's  officer  was 
for  the  purpose  of  serving  an  execution. 

As  I walked  through  Cedarville  on  that  day, 


184  TEN  NIGHTS  IN  A BAR-ROOM. 

the  whole  aspect  of  the  place  seemed  changed. 
I questioned  with  myself,  often,  whether  this 
were  really  so,  or  only  the  effect  of  imagination. 
The  change  was  from  cheerfulness  and  thrift,  to 
gloom  and  neglect.  There  was,  to  me,  a brood- 
ing silence  in  the  air;  a pause  in  the  life-move- 
ment; a folding  of  the  hands,  so  to  speak,  because 
hope  had  failed  from  the  heart.  The  residence 
of  Mr.  Harrison,  who,  some  two  years  before,  had 
suddenly  awakened  to  a lively  sense  of  the  evil 
of  rum-selling,  because  his  own  sons  were  dis- 
covered to  be  in  danger,  had  been  one  of  the 
most  tasteful  in  Cedarville.  I had  often  stopped 
to  admire  the  beautiful  shrubbery  and  flowers 
with  which  it  was  surrounded;  the  walks  so  clear 
— the  borders  so  fresh  and  even — the  arbors  so 
cool  and  inviting.  There  was  not  a spot  upon 
which  the  eye  could  rest,  that  did  not  show  the 
hand  of  taste.  When  I now  came  opposite  to 
this  house,  I was  no  longer  in  doubt  as  to  the 
actuality  of  a change.  There  were  no  marked 
evidences  of  neglect;  but  the  high  cultivation  and 
nice  regard  for  the  small  details  were  lacking. 
The  walks  were  cleanly  swept;  but  the  box-bor- 
ders were  not  so  carefully  trimmed.  The  vines 
and  bushes  that  in  former  times  were  cut  and 
tied  so  evenly,  could  hardly  have  felt  the  keen 
touch  of  the  pruning-knife  for  months. 

As  I paused  to  note  the  change,  a lady,  some- 
what beyond  the  middle  age,  came  from  the 
house.  I was  struck  by  the  deep  gloom  that 
overshadowed  her  countenance.  Ah!  said  I to 
myself,  as  I passed  on,  how  many  dear  hopes, 
that  once  lived  in  that  heart,  must  have  been  scat- 
tered to  the  wunds.  As  I conjectured,  this  was 
Mrs.  Harrison,  and  I was  not  unprepared  to  hear, 
as  I did  a few  hours  afterward,  that  her  two  sons 
had  fallen  into  drinking  habits;  and,  not  only 


NIGHT  THE  NINTH . 


185 

this,  had  been  enticed  to  the  gaming-table.  Un- 
happy mother  ! What  a life-time  of  wretchedness 
was  compressed  for  thee  into  a few  short  years! 

I walked  on,  noting,  here  and  there,  changes 
even  more  marked  than  appeared  about  the  resi- 
dence of  Mr.  Harrison.  Judge  Lyman’s  beautiful 
place  showed  utter  neglect;  and  so  did  one  or  two 
others  that,  on  my  first  visit  to  Cedarville, 
charmed  me  with  their  order,  neatness,  and  cul- 
tivation. In  every  instance,  I learned,  on  inquir- 
ing, that  the  owners  of  these,  or  some  members 
of  their  families,  were,  or  had  been,  visitors  at 
the  “ Sickle  and  Sheaf;”  and  that  the  ruin,  in 
progress  or  completed,  began  after  the  establish- 
ment of  that  point  of  attraction  in  the  village. 

Something  of  a morbid  curiosity,  excited  by 
what  I saw,  led  me  on  to  take  a closer  view  of 
the  residence  of  Judge  Hammond  than  I had  ob- 
tained on  the  day  before.  The  first  thing  that  I 
noticed,  on  approaching  the  old,  decaying  man- 
sion, were  handbills,  posted  on  the  gate,  the  front 
door,  and  on  one  of  the  windows.  A nearer  in- 
spection revealed  their  import.  The  property 
had  been  seized,  and  was  now  offered  at  sheriff’s 
sale ! 

Ten  years  before,  Judge  Hammond  was  known 
as  the  richest  man  in  Cedarville:  and  now,  the 
homestead  he  had  once  so  loved  to  beautify — 
where  all  that  was  dearest  to  him  in  life  once 
gathered — worn,  disfigured,  and  in  ruins,  was 
about  being  wrested  from  him.  I paused  at  the 
gate,  and,  leaning  over  it,  looked  in  with  sad- 
dened feelings  upon  the  dreary  waste  within.  No 
sign  of  life  was  visible.  The  door  was  shut — the 
windows  closed — not  the  faintest  wreath  of  smoke 
was  seen  above  the  blackened  chimney-tops.  How 
vividly  did  imagination  restore  the  life,  and  beau- 
ty, and  happiness,  that  made  their  home  there 


TEN  NIGHTS  IN  A BAR-ROOM. 


186 

only  a few  years  before, — the  mother  and  her  no- 
ble boy,  one  looking  with  trembling  hope,  the 
other  with  joyous  confidence,  into  the  future, — 
the  father,  proud  of  his  household  treasures,  but 
not  their  wise  and  jealous  guardian. 

Ah!  that  his  hands  should  have  unbarred  the 
door,  and  thrown  it  wide,  for  the  wolf  to  enter 
that  precious  fold!  I saw  them  all  in  their  sunny 
life  before  me;  yet,  even  as  I looked  upon  them, 
their  sky  began  to  darken.  I heard  the  distant 
mutterings  of  the  storm,  and  soon  the  desolat- 
ing tempest  swept  down  fearfully  upon  them.  I 
shuddered  as  it  passed  away,  to  look  upon  the 
wrecks  left  scattered  around.  What  a change! 

“ And  all  this,”  said  I,  “ that  one  man,  tired  of 
being  useful,  and  eager  to  get  gain,  might  gather 
in  accursed  gold!” 

Pushing  open  the  gate,  I entered  the  yard,  and 
walked  around  the  dwelling,  my  footsteps  echo- 
ing in  the  hushed  solitude  of  the  deserted  place. 
Hark!  was  that  a human  voice? 

I paused  to  listen. 

The  sound  came,  once  more,  distinctly  to  my 
ears.  I looked  around,  above,  everywhere,  but 
perceived  no  living  sign.  For  nearly  a minute  I 
stood  still,  listening.  Yes;  there  it  was  again — 
a low,  moaning  voice,  as  of  one  in  pain  or  grief. 
I stepped  onward  a few  paces;  and  now  saw  one 
of  the  doors  standing  ajar.  As  I pushed  this 
door  wide  open;  the  moan  was  repeated.  Follow- 
ing the  direction  from  which  the  sound  came,  I 
entered  one  of  the  large  drawing-rooms.  The  at- 
mosphere was  stifling,  and  all  as  dark  as  if  it  were 
midnight.  Groping  my  way  to  a window,  I drew 
back  the  bolt,  and  threw  open  a shutter.  Broadly 
the  light  fell  across  the  dusty,  uncarpeted  floor, 
and  on  the  dingy  furniture  of  the  room.  As  it 
did  so,  the  moaning  voice  which  had  drawn  me 


NIGHT  THE  NINTH. 


187 

thither  swelled  on  the  air  again;  and  now  I saw, 
lying  upon  an  old  sofa,  the  form  of  a man.  It 
needed  no  second  glance  to  tell  me  that  this  was 
Judge  Hammond.  I put  my  hand  upon  him,  and 
uttered  his  name;  but  he  answered  not.  I spoke 
•more  firmly,  and  slightly  shook  him;  but  only  a 
piteous  moan  was  returned. 

“ Judge  Hammond !”  I now  called  aloud,  and 
somewhat  imperatively. 

But  it  availed  nothing.  The  poor  old  man 
aroused  not  from  the  stupor  in  which  mind  and 
body  were  enshrouded. 

“ He  is  dying !”  thought  I;  and  instantly  left 
the  house  in  search  of  some  friends  to  take  charge 
of  him  in  his  last,  sad  extremity.  The  first  per- 
son to  whom  I made  known  the  fact  shrugged 
his  shoulders,  and  said  it  was  no  affair  of  his, 
and  that  I must  find  somebody  whose  business 
it  was  to  attend  to  him.  My  next  application  was 
met  in  the  same  spirit;  and  no  better  success  at- 
tended my  reference  of  the  matter  to  a third  party. 
No  one  to  whom  I spoke  seemed  to  have  any 
sympathy  for  the  broken-down  old  man.  Shocked 
by  this  indifference,  I went  to  one  of  the  county 
officers,  who,  on  learning  the  condition  of  Judge 
Hammond,  took  immediate  steps  to  have  him  re- 
moved to  the  Alms-house,  some  miles  distant. 

“ But  why  to  the  Alms-house?  ” I inquired,  on 
learning  his  purpose.  “ He  has  property/’ 

“ Every  thing  has  been  seized  for  debt,”  was 
the  reply. 

“ Will  there  be  nothing  left  after  his  creditors 
are  satisfied?” 

“ Very  few,  if  any,  will  be  satisfied,”  he  an- 
swered. “ There  will  not  be  enough  to  pay  half 
the  judgments  against  him.” 

“ And  is  there  no  friend  to  take  him  in, — no 


188  TEN  nights  in  a bar-room. 

one,  of  all  who  moved  by  his  side  in  the  days 
of  prosperity,  to  give  a few  hours’  shelter,  and 
soothe  the  last  moments  of  his  unhappy  life?” 
“Why  did  you  make  application  here?”  was 
the  officer’s  significant  question. 

I was  silent. 

“ Your  earnest  appeals  for  the  poor  old  man 
met  with  no  words  of  sympathy?  ” 

“None.” 

“ He  has,  indeed,  fallen  low.  In  the  days  of  his 
prosperity,  he  had  many  friends,  so  called.  Ad- 
versity has  shaken  them  all  like  dead  leaves  from 
sapless  branches.” 

“ But  why?  This  is  not  always  so.” 

“ Judge  Hammond  was  a selfish,  worldly  man. 
People  never  liked  him  much.  His  favoring,  so 
strongly,  the  tavern  of  Slade,  and  his  distillery 
operations,  turned  from  him  some  of  his  best 
friends.  The  corruption  and  terrible  fate  of  his 
son — and  the  insanity  and  death  of  his  wife — all 
were  charged  upon  him  in  people’s  minds;  and 
every  one  seemed  to  turn  from  him  instinctively 
after  the  fearful  tragedy  was  completed.  He  never 
held  up  his  head  afterward.  Neighbors  shunned 
him  as  they  would  a criminal.  And  here  has  come 
the  end  at  last.  He  will  be  taken  to  the  Poor- 
house,  to  die  there — a pauper!  ” 

“ And  all,”  said  I,  partly  speaking  to  myself, 
“ because  a man,  too  lazy  to  work  at  an  honest 
calling,  must  needs  go  to  rum-selling.” 

“ The  truth,  the  whole  truth,  and  nothing  but 
the  truth,”  remarked  the  officer  with  emphasis, 
as  he  turned  from  me  to  see  that  his  directions 
touching  the  removal  of  Mr.  Hammond  to  the 
Poor-house  were  promptly  executed. 

In  my  wanderings  about  Cedarville  during  that 
day,  I noticed  a small  but  very  neat  cottage,  a 
little  way  from  the  centre  of  the  village.  Ther* 


NIGHT  THE  NINTH. 


189 

was  not  around  it  a great  profusion  of  flowers 
and  shrubbery;  but  the  few  vines,  flowers,  and 
bushes  that  grew  green  and  flourishing  about  the 
door,  and  along  the  clean  walks,  added  to  the  air 
of  taste  and  comfort  that  so  peculiarly  marked 
the  dwelling. 

“ Who  lives  in  that  pleasant  little  spot?  ” I 
asked  of  a man  whom  I had  frequently  seen  in 
Slade’s  bar-room.  He  happened  to  be  passing 
the  house  at  the  same  time  that  I was. 

“ Joe  Morgan,”  was  answered. 

“ Indeed!”  I spoke  in  some  surprise.  “ And 
what  of  Morgan?  How  is  he  doing?” 

“ Very  well.” 

“ Doesn’t  he  drink?  ” 

“ No.  Since  the  death  of  his  child,  he  has  never 
taken  a drop.  That  event  sobered  him,  and  he 
has  remained  sober  ever  since. 

“ What  is  he  doing?  ” 

“ Working  at  his  old  trade.” 

“ That  of  a miller?  ” 

“ Yes.  After  Judge  Hammond  broke  down,  the 
distillery  apparatus  and  cotton  spinning  machin- 
ery were  all  sold  and  removed  from  Cedarville. 
The  purchaser  of  what  remained,  having  some- 
thing of  the  fear  of  God,  as  well  as  regard  for 
man,  in  his  heart,  set  himself  to  the  restoration  of 
the  old  order  of  things,  and  in  due  time  the  re- 
volving mill-wheel  was  at  its  old  and  better  work 
of  grinding  corn  and  wheat  for  bread.  The  only 
two  men  in  Cedarville  competent  to  take  charge  of 
the  mill  were  Simon  Slade  and  Joe  Morgan.  The 
first  could  not  be  had,  and  the  second  came  in  as 
a matter  of  course.” 

“ And  he  remains  sober  and  industrious?  ” 

“ As  any  man  in  the  village,”  was  the  answer. 

I saw  but  little  of  Slade  or  his  son  during  the 
day.  But  both  were  in  the  bar-room  at  night,  and 


190  TEN  NIGHTS  IN  A BAR-ROOM . 

both  in  a condition  sorrowful  to  look  upon.  Their 
presence,  together,  in  the  bar-roofn,  half  intoxi- 
cated as  they  were,  seemed  to  revive  the  unhappy 
temper  of  the  previous  evening,  as  freshly  as  if  the 
sun  had  not  risen  and  set  upon  their  anger. 

During  the  early  part  of  the  evening,  consid- 
erable company  was  present,  though  not  of  a 
very  select  class.  A large  proportion  were  young 
men.  To  most  of  them  the  fact  that  Slade  had 
fallen  into  the  sheriffs  hands  was  known;  and  I 
gathered  from  some  aside  conversation  which 
reached  my  ears,  that  Frank’s  idle,  spendthrift 
habits  had  hastened  the  present  crisis  in  his  fa- 
ther’s affairs.  He,  too,  was  in  debt  to  Judge  Ly- 
man— on  wrhat  account,  it  was  not  hard  to  infer. 

It  was  after  nine  o’clock,  and  there  were  not 
half  a dozen  persons  in  the  room,  when  I noticed 
Frank  Slade  go  behind  the  bar  for  the  third  or 
fourth  time.  He  was  just  lifting  a decanter  of 
brandy,  when  his  father,  who  was  considerably 
under  the  influence  of  drink,  started  forward,  and 
laid  his  hand  upon  that  of  his  son.  Instantly  a 
fierce  light  gleamed  from  the  eyes  of  the  young 
man. 

“ Let  go  of  my  hand!  ” he  exclaimed. 

“ No,  I won’t.  Put  up  that  brandy  bottle — 
you’re  drunk  now.” 

“ Don’t  meddle  with  me,  old  man!  ” angrily  re- 
torted Frank.  “ I’m  not  in  the  mood  to  bear  any 
thing  more  from  you .” 

“ You’re  drunk  as  a fool  now,”  returned  Slade, 
who  had  seized  the  decanter.  “ Let  go  the  bot- 
tle.” 

For  only  an  instant  did  the  young  man  hesitate. 
Then  he  drove  his  half-clenched  hand  against  the 
breast  of  his  father,  who  went  staggering  away 
several  paces  from  the  counter.  Recovering  him- 
self, and  now  almost  furious,  the  landlord  rushed 


NIGHT  THE  NINTH . 191 

forward  upon  his  son,  his  hand  raised  to  strike 
him. 

“ Keep  off!  ” cried  Frank.  “ Keep  off!  If  you 
touch  me,  I’ll  strike  you  down!  ” At  the  same 
time  raising  the  half-filled  bottle  threateningly. 

But  his  father  was  in  too  maddened  a state  to 
fear  any  consequences,  and  so  pressed  forward 
upon  his  son,  striking  him  in  the  face  the  moment 
he  came  near  enough  to  do  so. 

Instantly,  the  young  man,  infuriated  by  drink 
and  evil  passions,  threw  the  bottle  at  his  father's 
head.  The  dangerous  missile  fell,  crashing  upon 
one  of  his  temples,  shivering  it  into  a hundred 
pieces.  A heavy,  jarring  fall  too  surely  marked 
the  fatal  consequences  of  the  blow.  When  we 
gathered  around  the  fallen  man,  and  made  an 
effort  to  lift  him  from  the  floor,  a thrill  of  horror 
went  through  every  heart.  A mortal  paleness  was 
already  on  his  marred  face,  and  the  death-gurgle 
in  his  throat!  In  three  minutes  from  the  time  the 
blow  was  struck,  his  spirit  had  gone  upward  to 
give  an  account  of  the  deeds  done  in  the  body. 

“ Frank  Slade!  you  have  murdered  your 
lather  5 ” 

Sternly  were  these  terrible  words  uttered.  It 
was  some  time  before  the  young  man  seemed  to 
comprehend  their  meaning.  But  the  moment  he 
realized  the  awful  truth,  he  uttered  an  exclama- 
tion of  horror.  Almost  at  the  same  instant,  a 
pistol-shot  came  sharply  on  the  ear.  But  the  med- 
itated self-destruction  was  not  accomplished.  The 
aim  was  not  surely  taken;  and  the  ball  struck 
harmlessly  against  the  ceiling. 

Half  an  hour  afterward,  and  Frank  Slade  was 
a lonely  prisoner  in  the  county  jail! 

Does  the  reader  need  a word  of  comment  on 
this  fearful  consummation?  No:  and  we  will  offer 
none. 


TEN  NIGHTS  IN  A BAR-ROOM. 


192 


NIGHT  THE  TENTH. 

THE  CLOSING  SCENE  AT  THE  “SICKLE  AND 

SHEAF.” 

On  the  day  that  succeeded  the  evening  of  this 
fearful  tragedy,  placards  were  to  be  seen  all  over 
the  village,  announcing  a mass  meeting  at  the 
“ Sickle  and  Sheaf  ” that  night. 

By  early  twilight,  the  people  commenced  as- 
sembling. The  bar,  which  had  been  closed  all 
day,  was  now  thrown  open,  and  lighted;  and  in 
this  room,  where  so  much  of  evil  had  been  origi- 
nated, encouraged,  and  consummated,  a crowd 
of  earnest-looking  men  were  soon  gathered. 
Among  them  I saw  the  fine  person  of  Mr.  Har- 
grove. Joe  Morgan — or,  rather,  Mr.  Morgan — 
was  also  of  the  number.  The  latter  I would 
scarcely  have  recognized,  had  not  some  one  near 
me  called  him  by  name.  He  was  well  dressed, 
stood  erect,  and  though  there  were  many  deep 
lines  on  his  thoughtful  countenance,  all  traces  of 
his  former  habits  were  gone.  While  I was  ob- 
serving him,  he  arose,  and  addressing  a few  words 
to  the  assemblage,  nominated  Mr.  Hargrove  as 
chairman  of  the  meeting.  To  this  a unanimous 
assent  was  given. 

On  taking  the  chair,  Mr.  Hargrove  made  a 
brief  address,  something  to  this  effect. 

“ Ten  years  ago,”  said  he,  his  voice  evincing 
a slight  unsteadiness  as  he  began,  but  growing 
firmer  as  he  proceeded,  “ there  was  not  a happier 


NIGHT  THE  TENTH.  193 

spot  in  Bolton  county  than  Cedarville.  Now,  the 
marks  of  ruin  are  everywhere.  Ten  years  ago, 
there  was  a kind-hearted,  industrious  miller  in 
Cedarville,  liked  by  every  one,  and  as  harmless  as 
a little  child.  Now,  his  bloated,  disfigured  body 
lies  in  that  room.  His  death  was  violent,  and  by 
the  hand  of  his  own  son!  ” 

Mr.  Hargrove’s  words  fell  slowly,  distinctly, 
and  marked  by  the  most  forcible  emphasis.  There 
was  scarcely  one  present  who  did  not  feel  a low 
shudder  run  along  his  nerves,  as  the  last  words 
were  spoken  in  a husky  whisper. 

“ Ten  years  ago,”  he  proceeded,  “ the  miller 
had  a happy  wife,  and  two  innocent,  glad-hearted 
children.  Now,  his  wife,  bereft  of  reason,  is  in 
a mad-diouse,  and  his  son  the  occupant  of  a fel- 
on’s cell,  charged  with  the  awful  crime  of  parri- 
cide!” 

Briefly  he  paused,  while  his  audience  stood 
gazing  upon  him  with  half-suspended  respiration. 

“ Ten  years  ago,”  he  went  on,  “ Judge  Ham- 
mond was  accounted  the  richest  man  in  Cedar- 
ville. Yesterday  he  was  carried,  a friendless  pau- 
per, to  the  Alms-house;  and  co-day  he  is  the  un- 
mourned occupant  of  a pauper’s  grave!  Ten 
years  ago,  his  wife  was  the  proud,  hopeful,  lov- 
ing mother  of  a most  promising  son.  I need  not 
describe  what  Willy  Hammond  was.  All  here 
knew,  him  well.  Ah!  what  shattered  the  fine  in- 
tellect of  that  noble-minded  woman?  Why  did 
her  heart  break?  Where  is  she?  Where  is  Willy 
Hammond?  ” 

A low,  half-repressed  groan  answered  the 
speaker. 

“ Ten  years  ago,  you,  sir,”  pointing  to  a sad- 
looking  old  man,  and  calling  him  by  name,  “ had 
two  sons— generous,  promising,  manly-hearted 
boys.  What  are  they  now?  You  need  not  answer. 


TEN  NIGHTS  IN  A BAR-ROOM . 


194 

the  question.  Too  well  is  their  history  and  your 
sorrow  known.  Ten  years  ago,  I had  a son, — 
amiable,  kind,  loving,  but  weak.  Heaven  knows 
how  I sought  to  guard  and  protect  him!  But  he 
fell  also.  The  arrows  of  destruction  darkened  the 
very  air  of  our  once  secure  and  happy  village. 
And  who  was  safe?  Not  mine,  nor  yours! 

“ Shall  I go  on?  Shall  I call  up  and  pass  in 
review  before  you,  one  after  another,  all  the 
wretched  victims  who  have  fallen  in  Cedarville 
during  the  last  ten  years?  Time  does  not  permit. 
It  would  take  hours  for  the  enumeration!  No;  I 
will  not  throw  additional  darkness  into  the  pict- 
ure. Heaven  knows  it  is  black  enough  already! 
But  what  is  the  root  of  this  great  evil?  Where 
lies  the  fearful  secret?  Who  understands  the  dis- 
ease? A direful  pestilence  is  in  the  air — it  walk- 
eth  in  darkness,  and  wasteth  at  noonday.  It  is 
slaying  the  first-born  in  our  houses,  and  the  cry 
of  anguish  is  swelling  on  every  gale.  Is  there  no 
remedy?  ” 

“ Yes!  yes!  There  is  a remedy!  ” was  the  spon- 
taneous answer  from  many  voices. 

“ Be  it  our  task,  then,  to  find  and  apply  it  this 
night,”  answered  the  chairman,  as  he  took  his 
seat. 

“ And  there  is  but  one  remedy,”  said  Morgan, 
as  Mr.  Hargrove  sat  down.  “ The  accursed  traf- 
fic must  cease  among  us.  You  must  cut  off  the 
fountain,  if  you  would  dry  up  the  stream.  If  you 
would  save  the  young,  the  weak,  and  the  innocent 
— on  you  God  has  laid  the  solemn  duty  of  their 
protection — you  must  cover  them  from  the  tempt- 
er. Evil  is  strong,  wily,  fierce,  and  active  in  the 
pursuit  of  its  ends.  The  young,  the  weak,  and 
the  innocent  can  no  more  resist  its  assaults,  than 
the  lamb  can  resist  the  wolf.  They  are  helpless, 
if  you  abandon  them  to  the  powers  of  evil.  Men 


NIGHT  THE  TENTH.  195 

and  brethren!  as  one  who  has  himself  been  well- 
nigh  lost — as  one  who,  daily,  feels  and  trembles 
at  the  dangers  that  beset  his  path — I do  conjure 
you  to  stay  the  fiery  stream  that  is  bearing  every 
thing  good  and  beautiful  among  you  to  destruc- 
tion. Fathers!  for  the  sake  of  your  young  chil- 
dren, be  up  now  and  doing.  Think  of  Willy  Ham- 
mond, Frank  Slade,  and  a dozen  more  whose 
names  I could  repeat,  and  hesitate  no  longer! 
Let  us  resolve,  this  night,  that  from  henceforth 
the  traffic  shall  cease  in  Cedarville.  Is  there  not 
a large  majority  of  citizens  in  favor  of  such  a 
measure?  And  whose  rights  or  interests  can  be 
affected  by  such  a restriction?  Who,  in  fact,  has 
any  right  to  sow  disease  and  death  in  our  com- 
munity? The  liberty,  under  sufferance,  to  do  so, 
wrongs  the  individual  who  uses  it,  as  well  as  those 
who  become  his  victims.  Do  you  want  proof  of 
this?  Look  at  Simon  Slade,  the  happy,  kind- 
hearted  miller;  and  at  Simon  Slade,  the  tavern- 
keeper.  Was  he  benefited  by  the  liberty  to  work 
harm  to  his  neighbor?  No!  no!  In  heaven’s 
name,  then,  let  the  traffic  cease!  To  this  end,  I 
offer  these  resolutions: — 

“ Be  it  resolved  by  the  inhabitants  of  Cedar- 
viile,  That  from  this  day  henceforth,  no  more  in- 
toxicating drinks  shall  be  sold  within  the  limits 
of  the  corporation. 

“ Resolved,  further,  That  all  the  liquors  in  the 
‘ Sickle  and  Sheaf  ’ be  forthwith  destroyed,  and 
that  a fund  be  raised  to  pay  the  creditors  of  Simon 
Slade  therefor,  should  they  demand  compensa- 
tion. 

“ Resolved,  That  in  closing  up  all  other  places 
where  liquor  is  sold,  regard  shall  be  had  to  the  * 
right  of  property  which  the  law  secures  to  every 
man. 

“ Resolved,  That  with  the  consent  of  the  legal 


I 


196  TEN  NIGHTS  IN  A BAR-ROOM . 

authorities,  all  the  liquor  for  sale  in  Cedarville 
be  destroyed,  provided  the  owners  thereof  be 
paid  its  full  value  out  of  a fund  specially  raised 
for  that  purpose.” 

But  for  the  calm  yet  resolute  opposition  of  one 
or  two  men,  these  resolutions  would  have  passed 
by  acclamation.  A little  sober  argument  showed 
the  excited  company  that  no  good  end  is  ever  se- 
cured by  the  adoption  of  wrong  means. 

There  were,  in  Cedarville,  regularly  constituted 
authorities,  which  alone  had  the  power  to  deter- 
mine public  measures,  or  to  say  what  business 
might  or  might  not  be  pursued  by  individuals. 
And  through  these  authorities  they  must  act  in 
an  orderly  way. 

There  was  some  little  chafing  at  this  view  of 
the  case.  But  good  sense  and  reason  prevailed. 
Somewhat  modified,  the  resolutions  passed,  and 
the  more  ultra-inclined  contented  themselves  with 
carrying  out  the  second  resolution,  to  destroy 
forthwith  all  the  liquor  to  be  found  on  the  prem- 
ises; which  was  immediately  done.  After  which 
the  people  dispersed  to  their  homes,  each  with  a 
lighter  heart,  and  better  hopes  for  the  future  of 
their  village. 

' On  the  next  day,  as  I entered  the  stage  thet 
was  to  bear  me  from  Cedarville,  I saw  a man 
strike  his  sharp  axe  into  the  worn,  faded,  and 
leaning  post  that  had,  for  so  many  years,  borne 
aloft  the  “ Sickle  and  Sheaf;”  and,  just  as  the 
driver  gave  the  word  to  his  horses,  the  false  em- 
blem which  had  invited  so  many  to  enter  the  way 
of  destruction,  fell  crashing  to  the  earth. 


THE  END. 


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krn  idea  used  in  their  construction. 


Harrow  Tread.  Large  Tubing. 
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Detachable  cranks;  patent  barrel  hubs,  requiring 
but  one  oiling  a season;  bat!  holders 

i ng$Arrricn  are  absolutely  dust  proof;  adjustable 
handle  bars  ; guaranteed  in  every  particular  by 
an  old  house  of  established  reputation 

SIOO  Specially  Reduced  to  $65 

Gottiams  $40  and  $50. 

Manhattan,  28  in.  $60. 

SCHOVERLING,  BABY  & GAEES, 
302  Broadway , N.  Y. 


